


From Tralfamadore, With Love

by newsbypostcard



Series: From Tralfamadore [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Chronic Illness, Dancing, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Music, Pining, Quantum Mechanics, Science Fiction, Slow Burn, Time Travel, background sam wilson/omc, burrito the dog, past sam wilson/bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-10 13:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 106,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11692368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: In 2018, Steve, Sam, and Bucky embark on a mission to explore a Hydra-owned warehouse when a kid with mutant powers sends Steve 18 years into the future. After figuring out where (and when) he is, Steve tracks Bucky down in 2036 to find he's become a successful business owner and an impassioned advocate for mutant rights. Steve's just as in love with Bucky as he was when he left, but for Bucky it's been a long 18 years. It's hard to accept when Bucky keeps him at arm's length... but Steve's never met a challenge that he didn't take.As he gets used to life in 2036 and the flaws in Bucky's idyllic life expose themselves, Steve also has to manage a suspiciously ubiquitous security force, a Brotherhood of Mutants, and old competing loyalties among his aged friends. There's a Bucky in 2018 waiting for him to come home, but if he does that, it means leaving this Bucky behind for a third, unforgivable time. How can he choose?What's Bucky not saying?How can he face losing everything --again?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Stucky Big Bang! I've never done a bang or a challenge of any kind before, and this was a lovely experience. My artist @[icoulddothisallday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/icoulddothisallday) has been _beyond_ wonderful. She claimed my fic in the final round of picks even though she hadn't planned to do art; showed enthusiasm for my work; showed me WIPs as she went; and generally was an absolute darling, all the while juggling her own SBB projects. I couldn't have asked for a better artist relationship; she was a dream to work with. Her delightful work appears in Chapters 6 and 12 below.
> 
> Please heed the "chronic illness" tag. There is a spoiler in the bottom note if this is something that's hard to read about for you.

  


### October 19, 2018 || 8:37pm

  


The warehouse is a bust, but they'd thought it would be. There wouldn't be much of a reason for Hydra to try to hide significant munitions in an unsecured warehouse in the middle of Brooklyn. They hadn't even bothered to suit up; Steve's equipped with just the shield. They'd wondered about a bunker, a secret wall, or maybe an underground dugout, but from all appearances it really is just a warehouse. 

They clear it swiftly, silently. It's sparsely populated, furnished only with mysterious crates that seem to be empty. Dirty mattresses lay strewn among them. It's clear there's nothing significant here for them to find.

"We sure we have the right location?" Steve mutters as they reconvene. "Seems like there should be _something_."

Bucky looks at Steve with deliberate intensity. "The report said it housed weapons." He gestures loosely to the nearest mattress with the muzzle of his pistol. "This is a flophouse. The kids _are_ the weapons."

Steve's eyes find Sam's. They probably could have figured that out on their own. "No guards or anything? Even if they're not here, wouldn't it make sense to--"

"Not if they're people no one would miss," Bucky says. "Kids they pulled off the street, had nowhere else to go, bought with the promise of deliverance... This place looks like nothing half because everything Hydra does looks like nothing, and half because that's what they think of these kids. Got potential, but today given a mattress and a bucket to shit in." He prods at one with his foot. "They're lucky to have that." 

He seems anxious enough to make Steve wonder how many places like this he's seen -- how many times he's been made to stay in one, trying to blend in as part of an op. "We should clear out," Bucky says, when no one else says anything. "These kids won't have much intel. Not worth the push."

"Doesn't bother you we're leaving Enhanced in Hydra's hands?" Sam asks him.

"We got a better offer?" Bucky shrugs, but it's more helpless than nonchalant. "We don't have the resources to support them, and they're here because they don't have the skills to take care of themselves. We take 'em, set 'em loose? They'll be right back here in a week, guaranteed." 

Steve doesn't like seeing this in him, this well-reasoned defeat. He hates even more that he doesn't have an argument. 

"One thing you can say about Hydra is that they'll at least train them to control their power," Bucky says. "Give them self-reliance."

"Yeah, that's a real comfort," Sam mutters.

"What do you want, Wilson? Gonna drag them against their will to our non-existent safehouse?"

"I'm just not convinced we shouldn't dig around," Sam says. "See if we can't get something out of this. I don't like the idea of leaving this place standing."

"You wanna burn down the only home these kids have? Be my guest--"

"Who said anything about burning anything down? You got 'burn it down' from 'turn something up'?"

"You said you don't like the sound of leaving it standing, which in my experience generally involves explosives. I figured--"

"Jesus!"

"--that since you are _not_ me, you'll do everything at half the speed--"

Sam turns to Steve, thumb hitching over his shoulder. "You hearing this?"

"--burn it down using a match, or maybe two sticks rubbed together; maybe roast a hot dog while it's going down."

"You got some serious problems with proportional responses to situations, Barnes, you know that?"

"I'm not the one threatening to blow up a flophouse."

"Neither am I!"

But Steve has stopped listening. Something's piqued his attention. He creeps around the space, trying to figure out what it is that's distracting him. They'd cut the surveillance before breaking in, but he still can't shake the feeling he's being watched. 

Sam and Bucky are still bickering behind him, but he can tell by their footfalls that they've figured out what he's doing. They follow at a reasonable distance but walk tense, Bucky flanking one side, Sam moving the other. 

"Nobody's blowing up anything," Steve says mildly. Bucky responds with an aborted complaint and nods Steve ahead of him, gun held at the ready. Sam, meanwhile, loops around the corner. At the same time, they all close in on a crate of a slightly larger size.

It rustles -- then falls silent.

"Guess that's everything, then," says Sam. He gives a look to Steve.

"May as well head out," Steve agrees.

Then, still as boards, none of them move a muscle. 

It's quiet for a minute. Steve looks up to see Sam engaged in silent communication with Bucky, cocking an eyebrow and then shaking his head. Sam raises his weapon to the crate while Bucky rolls his eyes and puts down his arm, though he doesn't holster his gun. Steve gets the idea and sets the shield down at his feet.

As though on cue, the crate kicks open from within. 

A kid blinks up at them, squinting against the glare of their penlights. Bucky was right -- he can't be much older than sixteen. He sees Steve and Bucky standing there and freezes, face etched with appallation at his own stupidity. 

"Hey," Steve says. "We're not here to hurt you. You want out of here?"

The kid blinks at them. The air seems to twist. Steve senses a tug at his gut -- sees Sam wince, too. "Hey," Steve says again, extending a welcoming hand. "You know who I am? Look." He taps at his shield. "We're here to help. Just relax, alright? We don't want any--"

The kid scrambles to his feet. It's clumsy; he ducks forward, uses his hands to push off the floor, but he still gets out of their reach. Bucky catches him easily with a hand in his hood, but in a blink the kid's snapped away from him, somehow a foot away when he wasn't before. 

Bucky exchanges a glance with Steve, as though asking Steve to confirm what he just saw. Steve's only response is to bolt after the kid, leaving Bucky scrambling to holster his weapon behind. "Come on," Steve growls in the kid's ear. "We're not going to hurt you, we just want to talk--"

But as Steve closes a hand around the kid's wrist, the kid turns and looks at Steve, his face contorting with surprise. Another squeeze of the air, an odd sense of torsion--

  



	2. When the Time Is Ripe

  


The kid's wrist disappears from his grip. 

Steve stumbles to a stop, blinking to see where he's gone. He's not in the warehouse anymore. He's outside, in a courtyard. He spins to find he's surrounded on three sides by an apartment building -- nice, by the looks of things, but definitely not something that was there before. 

He must have been transported somewhere. If Bucky was right and those kids were untrained Enhanced, there's no telling where he might have been taken to. 

It seems like he's alone, thank God -- it would be hard to explain to a standerby why he appeared out of nowhere. On the flip side, it means he's pretty much on his own -- without the shield, without money or cards. Wherever he is, he's going to have to improvise to find his way back.

It could be worse. At least he's in a stable situation; he can take a second to breathe. Steve peers up at the sky and tries to figure out which way he's even facing, but the light of dawn makes it difficult to find the North Star.

The light of -- dawn? Well, that's something; at least now he knows which way is east. On the other hand, he has not only been transported a significant distance away, he has also apparently jumped timezones. They'd entered the warehouse in the evening in Brooklyn. If the sun's already rising, wherever he is now must be several hours ahead.

Steve squints to the horizon and does the math. The sun rises at around 0700 this time of year, so that puts him ahead by about ten hours. He could be in Russia--

As though on cue, two joggers go by on the nearest sidewalk, speaking to each other in plain English. 

That could be a fluke, but it's heartening to know he'll at least be able to communicate with _someone_. Steve sets down the road, deciding to follow the English-speakers at a distance, in case they lead him to even more of them. He shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to combat the chill of the early morning. 

It doesn't take him long to figure out things don't seem right. 

It's the smell, he thinks -- the way it's familiar, drawing him to a place of memory that reminds him of home. He glances up. A rhododendron is fighting to bloom, thin lines of pink barely breaking through the green of… _spring?_

Well, then, maybe he's not in Russia. Maybe he's in Australia, or New Zealand. That would explain the English speakers; that would explain why the street signs are in English, too.

So he got delayed a few hours in transit from America to the Southern Hemisphere.

He wonders how long he's been gone.

He speeds up a little, anxiety settling in his gut. He wants to catch up to those joggers and ask them questions, but he also doesn't want to run up behind two women in the twilight of the morning. He looks around for some other indication of where he might be, but the cars look wrong; the cars look sleek, a little--

Steve freezes in his tracks.

The license plate reads: _New York._

His eyes flit to the next car, low to the ground and oddly compact. _New York_ , the plate reads. Spurned on by a burst of fear, he jogs ahead to catch the plate of a third -- New York again. 

Steve sprints forward, eyes catching on each plate. Every single one of them says goddamned New York. 

He's reached the end of the sidewalk. The traffic light is red. Steve stands, watching in incredulity while cars boasting New York license plate pass him by, one after another. 

Well, there's one from Maryland. But that's hardly helpful. 

Steve forces himself to breathe, trying to fight against the tight spin of panic. He looks up at the intersection and glances at the street sign. 

_4 Ave_.

Steve stares at it, disbelieving. He whirls around, trying to find the cross street, and sure enough -- there's 26 St. He turns again, looking at the building he left behind him--

This is where the warehouse... was.

Either Steve is somewhere doing its level best to look exactly like Brooklyn, or he's still in Brooklyn, in the same place he left. The thing of it is that nothing else looks the same. For a district that used to be packed with warehouses, the neighbourhood looks currently residential. A few blocks north, apartments tower high where there used to be none; the streets are lined with trees, fledgling and thin, as though they'd been planted just a few years ago.

None of this is right, and yet there's no other explanation. Steve is in Brooklyn. He turns to check the street signs again, like they might've changed since last he looked. Then he checks for landmarks just to confirm -- there's the Expressway behind him, that's 25th St. Station down the way. Apartments follow lines of apartments, until -- a warehouse, finally, on the other side of the overpass. 

So there are still inklings of the way things were. Steve's reminded of the way it felt returning to Brooklyn for the first time after the war -- the way some corners had looked just right, except for everything else that was stacked around them.

The building with the courtyard looks different from the others. It stands in a style that seems too old for the neighbourhood, compared with the glass and concrete towers that surround it. Every other building fills its entire lot, and yet here, valuable real estate had been sacrificed for rhododendrons. It was almost as though someone had gone to lengths to make sure of some vacant space, open to the air, just where Steve appeared.

As though in case -- 

In case…?

Whatever the situation, it's bad. Steve feels his mouth going dry, his eyes flitting from one object to the next. He's desperate to find something that might explain what's going on. He realizes he's been standing on the corner looking lost for a solid few minutes now, which seems like not the best strategy if he doesn't want to wind up in a fight with muggers at seven in the morning. 

He forces a grip on himself and sets down the street. 

It's slow, at first, like his body doesn't trust his feet to carry him. He sends courage to his feet and steps into an ungainly jog. Some desire for action soon overtakes his crushing dread, and that's a relief.

He's in a familiar unfamiliar place. That means that something's out of touch -- either Steve, or the place. 

He rifles through the possibilities; imagines Bucky here beside him, shooting him a significant look before coming up with options. If he's what's out of place, it could be that he's seeing a world that isn't there; it could be he's being made to hallucinate. Or it could be that the world really _has_ changed around him, that it's somehow unnatural, and that it's up to Steve to find his way back. Maybe he's been transported to another dimension, or--

Steve blinks across the street, peering helplessly into Green-Wood Cemetery. It's achingly familiar, but it's also a little wrong. Even before the sun's up, he can see its sloping hills; the way the trees, far from turning in autumnal chromatics, cascade with layers of green, shimmering in a morning breeze.

Now he's sure it isn't October anymore. How much time has passed? Seven months -- eight?

Could they really have rebuilt the entire neighbourhood in only eight months?

Steve swallows hard. At least the roar of panic in his ears has reduced to the low buzz of guard. He knows the best thing he can do for himself is to gather intel and not get bogged down. 

He remembers a gas station on the corner that, thank God, seems to be there -- but that's where his luck runs out. He can see as he approaches that the shop looks closed. Steve peers in the window anyway, trying to see if there's someone inside.

"Closed down last week." 

Steve turns toward the voice to see a man waiting for his dog, arm pulled long by the tension of the leash. "Guy died," the man continues, looking impassive in dawn's stingy light. "Mutant allegedly blew his top, if you believe that kind of thing. Employees won't come near it and there's no one to take it over." He looks around with patent indignation. "Pain in the ass if you ask me, but there's another shop around the corner that opens in ten minutes if there's something you're after."

Steve steps forward, aware he looks more cautious than he should. "Thanks," he says slowly. "Can you -- could you say that again? I guess I'm still groggy. There was a -- mutant?"

"What's the PC term for it -- Enhanced?" The guys nods. "Guess he didn't have enough to pay for gas, got desperate under pressure, had a reaction, then bada bing, bada boom: one frozen guy." He pauses to whistle for his dog, who ignores him. "Shame. Nice fella. Gave me three for two on soda if I talked Red Sox with him a few minutes. Ah -- no offense."

Steve's mouth quirks. "No bother to me. I'm still diehard for the Dodgers."

"That right? Sure, I see you in California. You a transplant?"

He steadies his breathing. Gathering intel. Gotta keep it together. "Grew up here. Haven't been back for a while, I just wanted a newspaper. Trying to get a feel for what's been going on, but… I guess I'm caught up now." He gives a wan smile. "Thanks."

The guy points and tugs his dog down the road. "Bodega's a block that way. They'll have you covered."

"Sure." He watches the guy trudge down the street, then, after a second of panicked hesitation, Steve steps after him. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"This is kind of a weird question, but I, uh… I woke up on the wrong side of something. You think you could tell me the date?"

The guy looks him up and down, like he's kind of impressed with whatever he's decided Steve's been up to. "It's the 16th, pal."

Steve nods delicately. "The 16th of…" He purses his lips and leans wincingly into it. "May?"

If he gets a circumspect look for his troubles, the guy at least confirms it. Steve tries to figure out whether he can get away with asking the year, then decides it probably doesn't matter all that much what this guy thinks of him. "And the year..."

The guy just stares.

"Is… 2019?" Steve says hopefully.

A second passes -- then whatever amusement the man felt drops wholly from his face. 

He takes a step back, then another. Steve steps after him, immediately apologetic. "No -- please. I just--"

"Nothing personal, man," the guy says, raising a staying hand, "but stay the hell away from me." He and his dog set off across the street without a wasted second, the man throwing periodic glances over his shoulder to make sure Steve doesn't follow.

Steve watches his retreating back. "I just wanted to know the date!" he calls pathetically after him; but, just as Steve's about to give up, the man drags to a halt and turns tensely to face him.

"2036," he calls down the street. 

It's faint; Steve's not sure he heard him right. "It -- what?"

"The year's 2036, man! If it's 2019 you're after, I think you missed it by a measure."

Steve stares at him, heart pounding, until somewhere above them someone shouts from a third-story window. 

"Hey!" says the voice. "Shut up!"

"Aw, go to hell!" the guy calls back; and when Steve looks back, he's already turned down the street, half-disappeared, leaving Steve alone in the gas station parking lot.

  


***

  


Steve gets to the bodega just as its doors are shuttering open and grasps at a newspaper fast as he can. Sure enough, there's the date: _May 16, 2036,_ right there in the top corner of the page. 

He tears through the front pages, trying to find some evidence of Avenger activity. He doesn't find any, but he does discover the President's in Russia trying to broker peace in good faith. Steve can't tell if that's a good sign or not. 

The bodega owner yells at him not long after to either buy the paper or leave, and though Steve thinks fleetingly about grabbing it and making a mad dash, he decides he wants to be able to actually show his face here again if he has to. He folds up the paper and steps outside -- and he's lost again, in a way. Yet he knows these streets. He sets off toward the cemetery, desperate for something familiar. 

Once he starts walking, his brain gets to buzzing. Before he remembers to pay attention he finds himself in Prospect Park. 

If he wanted familiarity, he's found it here. He blinks around a park that seems largely unchanged. The sun's casting light is filling the sky, now, and at least Steve's been blessed with a beautiful day. He walks around the park for a while, steadying his breathing, trying to decide what Bucky would tell him to do, and he finds himself an hour later stopped against a tree, watching birds flock on the lake. Same as they ever did. Same as they always will, no matter the year.

The park fills up slowly with people walking their dogs, people jogging, people commuting, and Steve finds a bench and lets his mind go blank. He watches them pass. He's at a loss. He knows the year and where he is, but he doesn't know -- anything else. Who the hell's the mayor? Is the President a Democrat? How prolific are mutants, now, that people are getting frozen and the neighbours know about it? 

_Where the hell is Bucky?_

The longer Steve sits, the more dread starts to fill him. He sees, now, why Bucky told him to never stop moving. Desperate for some information, he tries perilously to dig yesterday's newspaper out of some draconian recycling system that appears to have been armed with jagged, metal teeth. All Steve gets for his trouble is a punctured arm and a ruined sleeve. 

Blood peeks at him through the tiny holes -- a reminder, a century out of time, that he's still only mortal. He'll have to be smart about getting out of this. He's at a decided disadvantage here; it won't do to get killed, lost here in the future.

He gives up on the newspaper and sits back down on the bench. This time when he looks around the park, he finally starts to see the differences. New high-rise buildings tower in the distance. People's fashions are different, seeming to mimic the new style of cars -- slimmer, with as little bulk to them as possible. Buttons seem to be so sleek as to be invisible against the fabric of people's shirts.

The whole situation strikes him as suddenly absurd. He gives a huff of laughter; tilts his head to the sky, as though to sun himself on the morning. He sheds his coat, confident, at least, that his t-shirt looks about right for the era. So long as no one asks him about his jeans or his bleeding arm, he should be fine.

He registers a synthetic voice at the edge of his periphery. He looks for the source and finally finds a computer terminal erected not far. It's offering information to passerby in a cool female voice, "should they require it." Steve watches people interact with it a while before realizing that he must have passed a few of them already, too busy internally panicking to process what they were.

After a while spent observing people going up to the thing and asking questions aloud, Steve decides to give it a try. 

"Welcome to Prospect Park," the computer says cheerfully as he approaches. "How may I assist you?"

"Can I get a city directory?" Steve says, peering around self-consciously.

"I'm sorry," says the cool voice. "I don't understand your command."

"That's okay," he mutters, ashamed of feeling so helpless. "I never have either."

"I don't recognize your vocal patterns," says the machine. "Would you like to register?"

"No," Steve says. "Thanks. I'm not from around here."

"Are you sure? With a simple iris scan, you will be able to access your preferences from any station around the city."

Steve doesn't like the sound of that. "I'll make my own way."

"As you wish. Enjoy your stay in New York, Unknown Guest #318053128."

"Thank you."

The conversation concluded, Steve finds himself again at loose ends. He starts to grab his jacket off the bench, but before he gets far--

"Do you know a Sam Wilson?" he asks the computer, backtracking.

"I'm sorry," says the computer. "I do not have the capability to locate individuals--"

"It's fine," Steve says. "Thanks anyway."

This time when he sets away, he winds up walking for a very long time.

  


***

  


Steve doesn't muster the courage to actually go to any of his old haunts, at least right away. He should, he knows, just in case he can track someone down, but it's so -- it's --

Eighteen _years._

What the hell is he gonna find?

Instead, he spends the day figuring out the basics of survival. The first fact he decides on is that he does look out of place, but not really enough for anyone to notice. It is still New York, after all. From what he's been able to discern, wearing fashions two decades old isn't of the least of anyone's concern. 

Second is that he's seen enough advertisements by insurance companies to figure out that "Enhanced protection" puns are universal for a reason. He's pretty sure that if he spends enough time eavesdropping in the shadows, he's going to be able to track someone down who might be able to direct him to whatever's left of the Avengers. He figures they've got to be connected somehow -- Avengers and the Enhanced. Surely, by now, the Avengers must have been able to scrape together the kind of resources that can give mutants a better start than Hydra -- _surely._

His third discovery is that Park Slope has a serious food waste problem. He has a nice conversation with a group of self-described 'freegans' who tell him more than a little about this new world when they find him loitering behind a grocery store. There are five of them, all kids, in their late teens or barely out of them. They'd stumbled laughingly into the alleyway, happy and street-worn, and stared at Steve with wary eyes until Steve asked if they knew if this store was a good food resource for those low on cash.

They'd accepted him pretty quickly after that. He'd let the one that looked to be oldest -- Jules, he'd called himself -- frisk him a little, with an intriguing degree of acuity. With a shrug, Jules had let Steve go and knocked politely on a nearby door, nodding his thanks to the guy who handed him a box full of food seconds later.

"They'd throw it out anyway," Jules said as he'd handed Steve a loaf of bread. Now the six of them are eating in peculiar silence, cowering around a cardboard box in an alley in broad daylight. 

Steve's head and shoulders above them, and easily the tidiest. He's the one out of place here. He isn't sure the last time he had to rely on the kindness of strangers, but he's sure it was in a Brooklyn alleyway, loitering as he tried to rustle up the courage to stand in line for food after he'd used the last of his money to bury his mother. 

Things felt a little more desperate then. He was that wary and street-worn kid once -- a long time ago.

A century ago.

He sets his food down for a minute.

"You new in town?" Jules asks him between mouthfuls of food. 

"Uh -- in a way." Steve fights his way back out of his head. "I, uh… I guess I'm looking for friends. Problem is that I don't know where they are, or how to find them, or if they're even actually here. Got no money, no direction... Kinda showed up here with nothing."

"Why'd you come, then?"

Steve's not sure how to answer that. "Not sure I had a choice."

"So you're fucked," Jules says.

"I -- yeah. Guess I am." He offers a wan smile. "Knew I had to eat eventually; that's a start. I... really appreciate you sharing." He gestures with the stub of bread in his hand. "Wish I knew how to pay you back."

"Don't pay it back. Pay it forward." Jules studies Steve with a clarity that reminds him of someone -- Fury, maybe. A little of Bucky. " _Hoy por ti, mañana por mi,_ y'know?"

Gratitude bursts full in him. He nods to his feet, shoulders sloping; humble. "Thank you."

Jules holds his eye with evaluating scrutiny for another second and, yeah, it's definitely like Bucky -- like he's dressing Steve down with his eyes alone. "Haven't seen Manhattan," Steve mutters, having to blink away to combat the fighting in his gut. "Is it like Brooklyn?"

"Worse," says another kid -- Fabio, Steve thinks. "We don't go there."

" _You'll_ probably do fine," says a girl beside him. She has a scar from her lip to her chin; calls herself Karma. She looks at Steve with open disdain.

"There's no danger if you look like you fit in," Jules clarifies slowly, looking from Karma to Steve. "Which you kind of do. Might get asked about that arm." He gestures to Steve's jacket.

"Ah, yeah." Steve smiles warily. "It'll heal. So -- sorry, weird question. Is Stark Tower still -- there?"

It's still there, and it's still Stark Tower, though Steve gets a strange look just for asking. Before he can follow up, the conversation continues of its own accord; the kids seem eager to talk about the problems with the city. Manhattan's "rebuilding," for some reason -- "but isn't it always?" Brooklyn's gotten even more expensive. The kids show a tremendous and immediate disdain for the price of housing. Extreme treehousing is a thing. "You need a place to sleep, just look to the trees," Jules says with a wink, though Karma hisses at him to stop talking. Then they gave him the world's best crash course in which of the stores in this alleyway get rid of their old food at what time. Steve figures that'll keep him alive for a good couple of days.

"Just do me a favour," Jules says as they part ways. "Eat your share and then hand it off to someone who needs it. Right?"

"Right," Steve agrees faintly. He thanks them again and sends them off with a wave, then quietly, melancholy, sets off the other way.

  


***

  


Steve's next discovery is that, unless he stumbles across someone he knows, nobody's likely to recognize him. It's not like he'd been all that conspicuous, even in 2018; when he's not wearing the Cap suit, only an observant few seem to notice him in general. 

Here, in the future, the risk seems even lower. Nobody's seen him in years. He's not even Captain America anymore.

After years begrudging his recognizability, now -- finally -- he's anonymous again.

He's not sure he likes it. At least he blends in with the foot traffic. Advertisements speak to him as the park directory had done: loud, bracing, bleating at him about security services. Steve blinks at one just long enough to become suspicious of the sheen of it before finally averting his face and setting off again. He feels humbled, beyond it. Tension creaks at his fists where they're shoved in his pockets, but tension, at least, is better than despair.

He walks down 7th Ave., too warm in his jacket. It's an agonizingly nice day. He should probably be thankful that it's not raining, but the rain would at least have matched his mood. He toys with the idea of walking all the way to Stark Tower, but he's not sure he has the courage for that. What happens if he gets there and there's no one that knows him? If Tony's not there -- if the heir to the Stark empire hasn't the slightest idea who he is -- he might wind up locked away somewhere. He could be accused of identity theft, or sent to the Raft, or worse. That's the world he left, after all. From all appearances, it's done nothing to improve. 

Eighteen years is a long time to be gone. Eighteen years is longer than some of those street kids have been alive. Fleetingly, self-pityingly, Steve wonders if he's better off not trying to find them at all -- or at least, not right now. He could set up a life for himself, find a way to integrate into this world. He could build himself an identity and a method of living, and _then_ \--

Suddenly, his heart leaps. 

A sign boasts, in electric blue: _Captain America._

Square-headed figurines sit in a shop window. In front of them sits Captain America -- a black man with wings. Steve steps forward, heart in his throat, pressing his hands against the glass. It's Sam, alright; there's no mistaking him. The box calls him FALCON in big, jagged letters. His uniform is different -- white and blue and minimal red, except around his mask. Steve wonders if that's an intentional statement, if--

Behind him, tucked away a little, sits another figurine -- dark-haired, with a metal arm. 

_Bucky._

Bucky doesn't have a title. He's Captain America, "alternate." Take off his helmet and he's got smudges around his eyes; comes with a scowl and a removable gun. 

Steve laughs, relieved even to see his tiny plastic face. He clutches at his chest; imagines Bucky's mocking voice, if he'd caught him like this. Steve himself is not in the display, but that doesn't surprise him. It does give him the courage to enter the shop under the assumption he won't get recognized. 

It's a small space, not exactly giving Steve the ability to skirt by unnoticed. The clerk at the counter is blessedly distracted. She greets him boredly and then averts her attention back to some device, leaving Steve to roam through the aisles unmonitored.

He takes his time. The walls are densely stocked. He tries to look casual, perusing the merchandise, trying to force his heart rate down when met with familiar faces, plastic and judging. Avengers are no less of interest to the public now than they were then, by the looks of things; row after row of figurines flood the walls, offering each of the Avengers in numerous forms. Here's Ironman, his suit looking impossibly sleek; its corners are pared down to make its wearer just look like a regular, slightly larger, slightly more muscular man. Steve fights a smile and wonders if Tony's still at it. He decides that the changes to his uniform suggest an ego boost, and so decides he probably is.

Everyone's uniform has changed over the years. Every figurine shines, for some reason. Steve wonders if it's an accident of manufacturing or if they refract light in real life, in the course of their daily avenging.

He's getting ahead of himself. He moves sideways -- sees Scarlet Witch, unmistakably Wanda, represented with a functional outfit of jeans and high boots. There's Rhodey, and Peter Parker; there's one of Bruce standing still, and another in action. 

Then -- more Sam, more Bucky, the two of them taking a row for themselves. Sam's costumes seem to devolve through time; each iteration shows a new-old detail that Steve remembers, recognizes. There are fewer Bucky figurines overall, whether due to difficulties in design or in divergent popularity. His uniform seems to have stayed largely the same through the ages -- he wears black tac gear in every model, except for the American flag stitched triangular into a central panel. Its colours are muted, like he wants to make as little of an impression as possible.

Definitely Bucky, then.

It doesn't take Steve long to find a figurine of himself.

Buried at the back of the store, he's there only twice: once in his uniform from the war, and the other of his stealth suit from working with SHIELD. They're labeled as such -- "Retro!" exclaims one, while the other boasts SHIELD's name with dubious pride. They're just slightly out of his reach, high on the top rack, brushing against the ceiling tiles. Steve thinks he can see a layer of dust settled atop them. 

That makes him smile, for some reason -- but the feeling evolves. Something aching and melancholy grows in his chest, but he can't find it in him to look away.

"Can I help you?"

The clerk has found him. Now that she's giving him her full attention, Steve thinks she looks tired. She's got the _can-I-help-you_ look to her, too, like she might really want to if she was having a better day, which she is not.

Steve smiles again, then looks back at the wall. "Just browsing. Thanks."

She nods at the Steve figurines. "You want me to get one of those down for you so you can have a better look?"

"No," he says. "Thanks. I, uh… didn't bring any money with me. Really just browsing."

The clerk frowns at him, then leans back a little to look -- what? At his wrist, maybe? He _hopes_ it's his wrist. "Alright," she says, giving him a curious once-over. She nods at the figurines, suspicion already forgotten. "You know about Cap Prime? Most people under 30 don't even know him."

"Do I look under 30?" he says with surprise.

"Oh," she says, and waves him off. "I assumed. You'd remember him, then."

"Yeah," Steve says. "I remember him."

"Weird how he just disappeared, huh? I got theories."

Discomfort wrings furiously in his gut. "I'm sure that's true of many."

"Some people still come looking for him. Gotta keep him in stock -- he makes a lot of people happy. You included, maybe." She elbows him -- something bordering on flirtation, he realizes dimly -- and returns to the cash. "Well, let me know if you want me to set anything aside for you. Come back another day if you want. We got plenty."

Steve sighs on an exhale, staring down his own plastic intensity. "Thank you."

Any delight he'd felt upon entering the shop is gone. He's missed so much. For all he wished he no longer had the burdens of command on his shoulders, this is far from what he wanted. He never wanted to be obsolete to _them_ , to his friends; he never wanted to be obsolete at all. He just wanted... 

Anxiety starts crawling, clawlike, up in his throat. He wants to get out of here. He exits the shop and walks down the street, instinctively avoiding eye contact with every screen. 

Whether by chance or by intention, he winds up back at Prospect Park, having walked there as though on autopilot. 

There's something about the smell of the trees that calms him. There's something about the whole damn place that brings him right home, in fact -- that puts the earth back under his feet. It was one of the only places that really reminded Steve of home the first time he'd resurfaced in the twenty-first century. It was the only place that avoided the dangerous dance of almost-familiar -- that seemed recognizably _his_.

Prospect Park in spring. That much, Steve can work with.

He slouches down against a tree and rests his head back against the trunk, wrists resting over knees set akimbo. He has to reason this through. A jump of eighteen years is, at the very least, easier to manage than a jump of 68 years. The people he loves have lived only one generation instead of three. Bucky's alive, or at the very least might be; Sam might be, too, and so might Tony, and Natasha, and Rhodey, and Clint. Steve does some quick math and places everyone at between 35 and 70 -- all plausibly alive. At the very least, once he finds them, people might finally stop giving him flak for being so old. 

The thought makes him smile. Suddenly, he laughs. Steve's sitting on the ground in Prospect Park, laughing by himself, a whole goddamned century out of time. Suddenly it's all ridiculous. Captain America is too afraid to take the steps to find his friends! He's been derailed by a hunk of plastic carrying his face. Some warrior he is! He's supposed to launch himself into the thick of things, to come up swinging, same as he always does. Who is this sad sack purporting to be a hero?

But truth be told -- since he's not being held captive by SHIELD, this time -- the only thing Steve wants is to hide in this park for the whole damn rest of his life. 

Would it matter if he did? Where do his friends think he went? Should he bother to get in touch with them at all? Would they be better off without him, believing he'd never come back?

But Bucky must have seen what happened to him. Maybe Sam had, too. They were right behind him; they wouldn't have thought he'd just _left_. How hard did they try to get him back, and fail? How long did they stay in that warehouse? Did they take it over from Hydra, just to try to figure out what happened to him? Did they catch the kid who started this, for all the good it did?

Steve's of half a mind to go back to the lot where he reappeared, but he's not sure what he thinks he'll find. They may have found a way to build around the spot he disappeared, but after 18 years he wouldn't blame his friends for moving on. He's sure Bucky's moved apartments; Steve would have, after all, left in his shoes.

It could be that no one gives a thought to him, day-to-day. He kind of hopes that they don't, yet he's desperate to know if they do.

Locked in place by indecision, Steve leans against the tree and breathes in Brooklyn's spring air.

  



	3. Echoes and Winter Silences

  


### May, 1934

Tired of looking to the door every time he heard a sound that might've been a knock, Steve had decided to take a walk.

School was awful when Bucky wasn't there. Steve found himself fielding questions from the decent folk about why Bucky left, and found himself fielding punches from the people who wanted to slam him one. The lack of Bucky's protection meant a lot was changing for Steve. He found himself disinclined to pay much attention in lessons anymore, able to fly by in the humanities and already up to his ears in the sciences. He drew in his notebook margins instead of paying attention, getting thrown out more than once just for zoning out. His Ma had a bit to say about that, but Steve had trouble finding it in him to care. 

Again and again, he found all he wanted was the 25 minute reprieve in the middle of the day, when Bucky'd set a hand on his shoulder and made sure he felt safe. It wasn't so much the fending for himself that bothered him; Steve did plenty of that when Bucky wasn't looking. It was the fact that he fended for himself _constantly_ these days. It was that he had to hunker down by himself and mouth the words that Bucky used to say to him to help him get his asthma down. It was that Bucky, far from avoiding him for anything that had to do with _Steve_ , was nevertheless suddenly out of his life. 

Consumed in part by grief around the death of his father, Bucky never seemed to have time for Steve anymore. They never talked about anything that was bothering either one of them. Working days in Prospect Park -- like the grief that lived in him -- was somehow private to Bucky. Whatever it was, it was something Steve couldn't touch.

It was well past 6 o'clock and Bucky wasn't coming by. Steve still expected him to. That's what bothered him, in the end -- the expectation of seeing him when he wasn't there.

Steve set off for his walk after dinner and found himself heading for the site where Bucky claimed to work. He expected it to be empty. He wanted to know what the fuss was about. He'd been to the park plenty before -- he and Ma used to go there when she had a day off and there was nothing else to do. But recently it was under constant construction, full of ridiculous make-work projects like "building a zoo," which Steve couldn't see the point of. It wasn't the fault of the zoo, or of the men building it, or anything to do with the situation itself. Steve would've been the same way about any job Bucky had gotten.

He knew he was being selfish. It was more that he didn't mind. He wandered the park with careless interest, taking in the bloom of the trees. It aggravated his hayfever. He kicked a chestnut as he passed it, then kicked it again with gusto, for good measure. 

He found the construction site where the zoo was to be.

How ridiculous. How absurd. The city couldn't afford to support its men! How could it support beasts? "Elephants in Prospect Park!" Bucky'd said, and Steve had laughed with it, disbelieving. "Imagine that!"

Steve ducked under the cordoned-off construction zone, revelling privately in the act of small rebellion. He planned to mock the site and its lofty dreams; he planned to take the power from this thing that had taken Bucky from him.

Yet he was not alone. Steve stepped around a sizeable gravel truck to find one lone worker still miserably digging. Steve froze, not expecting him, and the guy looked up at him in surprise. He was covered in dirt from head to toe, Steve could see that at once; his undershirt was filthy from where he'd folded his coveralls at the waist. He was sweating in the late evening sun, thick stains spreading on his shirt, and--

Steve could hardly believe it, but he was looking at Bucky.

Steve barely recognized him, looking like this. His mouth turned dry, for some reason. 

"Hi," Steve said, and swallowed.

Bucky just looked at him. Finally he leaned a hand on his planted shovel. "Hey."

Neither one of them said anything. Steve couldn't stop looking at Bucky, and yet Bucky couldn't seem to once look at Steve. 

"The hell are you still doing here?" Steve asked him. "It's gotta be near eight by now."

"Had to work late."

"Where's the foreman?"

"No foreman."

"Then... are you getting paid?"

Bucky avoided his eye and looked to the clouds.

" _Bucky._ Are you working -- for free?"

"Pit's not gonna dig itself, Rogers."

Steve blinked at him, stunned. "How is no one here getting mad at you for taking their work?"

Bucky's face ironed out. He hadn't thought of that.

"Tell me you're at least getting paid during the day."

"I am."

"So why are you still here?"

"I--"

"You -- what, Buck?"

"I can't -- go back home," he sighed, "right now, Steve. I'm better off working. Tell me you understand."

Steve stared him down hard. When he wouldn't waver, Bucky blinked his gaze away. His face found the ground and Steve took a look at him, a _proper_ look: at the stance of his feet, the tone of his arms, the way he seemed to be holding onto himself for stability.

"How long have you been out in the sun?" Steve asked him, voice suddenly turning soft.

"I don't know," Bucky said.

"What time did you start?"

"Seven."

"Did you take a break?"

"A bit."

"You're gonna kill yourself."

"I'm fine."

Steve stepped forward to wrest the shovel out of his hand, and Bucky held fast until Steve tugged hard. Bucky's expression flashed shock as the handle pulled clear and then, instead of being replaced by indignation, Bucky's face collapsed into terrible pain.

His jaw clenched against it, but it wasn't enough. A single tear broke through the dirt on Bucky's face as he looked away. 

"Whoa," Steve said, palming aggressively, not unkindly, at Bucky's face. "The hell's going on with you, Buck? Come on, talk to me."

Bucky shook his head a minute, then took a shuddering breath. "It's a fuckin' death march at home, Steve," he rasped. "I gotta -- I get home from work, you know, and Ma's crying and Rebecca's pissed off and the little ones don't know what's going on. And I gotta take care of 'em, all of 'em. The girls need baths. Ma's too upset to run them. They gotta have lunches packed. They need their homework checked. They gotta fucking function with half a parent and -- God help them -- _me_ to prop 'em up, but it's not enough. They need a father. I can't be that for them. I can't be, but I gotta be, because that bastard up and fucking _died_ and--"

"Bucky. Bucky, sit _down._ " 

"And me?" Bucky gestured aside, ignoring him. "I gotta keep -- showing up here, digging this _futile_ hole just to make the money to have the privilege to go home and do all that. Because if I don't dig this hole then they don't get fed, Steve, and if they don't get fed then they die, and if I don't got them then I got nothing, so what else am I supposed to do?" Bucky stooped to pick up the shovel again, and _there_ was that anger Steve expected -- a buried spark, made quiet by exhaustion. "You wanna know something, Steve? Being here, digging a useless hole for peanuts… it's still fucking better than trying to fill the shoes of an old man who left us nothing and still managed to be twice what I am. So that's what I'm doing. I'm digging a hole."

"Come with me."

"Go away."

Steve pulled the shovel out of Bucky's hand again and threw it far as he could. Bucky watched it go -- barely three feet. A pittance. "My house is quiet," Steve said. "You'll sit down and have something to eat."

"I don't _need_ \--"

"You need a break is what you need," Steve said sharply. "You need a minute and you're gonna take it. You haven't eaten in hours and you look like the walking dead and you need to bathe _yourself_ before you do a damn thing for anyone else, so you are going to come back to mine while I go to your house and do what I can for the girls. Alright?"

Bucky's jaw ticked as though keeping time and Steve touched a finger to where that singular tear-track cut through the dirt on his face. Then, getting hold of himself, he let his hand drop to the collar of Bucky's undershirt, where it turned into a fist and started pushing Bucky angrily toward the shade of the nearest tree. "And where the hell have you been, anyway?" Steve muttered, peering past him to make sure he wasn't going to trip him over anything. "Jolly Wankins has planted his foot in my back end no less than three times already this week."

Bucky didn't say anything until Steve pushed him onto the ground, and then, perfectly motionless, under the tree he lay, surely out of the sun for the first time all day.

Steve stood over him, breathing heavy. Then he lay himself down beside him, lungs feeling thin. How could he have been so wrong? How could he have been the one who felt abandoned, when it was Bucky who'd had to overhaul his life?

"Are you talking about Wally Jonkins?" Bucky asked finally, quiet, throat oddly constrained.

"That's what I said," Steve said. "Jolly Wankins."

And silence pulled on for so long that Steve was afraid that it wasn't going to land, but then, almost silently, he heard Bucky snicker. The sound grew over time, becoming longer and louder until they were both rolling with laughter. It broke over them where they lay on the grass -- left them bleating into the evening in great, cathartic waves.

"That's a good one," Bucky choked out, when they'd calmed down enough. "You say that to his face?"

"I don't want to get clobbered a _fourth_ time this week, Buck."

"Fair enough." Steve looked over just as Bucky ran his fingers through his filthy hair, and for a split second, Steve saw it: Bucky at seventeen, without the world to bear. "Just saying," Bucky said, "you could start up a rumour with that one. Take him down a peg."

Steve grimaced. "Nah."

"C'mon, pal, you gotta start being subtle about these things. One of these days you're gonna find a problem not solvable with a punch."

"I mean, my track record's been great so far," Steve said sardonically; and though he was sure Bucky disagreed he at least let it go, and for a while they just lay there, basking in Brooklyn spring air.

  


***

  


A security guard is prodding Steve with a flashlight. "Can't sleep here, pal."

Steve blinks at him blearily. "Of course not."

"Park's closed. Come back tomorrow."

"It's closed?"

"After-dark curfew. No one allowed in the park."

Steve frowns, but he's too disoriented to argue. It is well after dark; he has no idea what time it is. He rolls to his feet and takes the exit the guard points him to, noting that even the park directory screens seem to be shut down.

 _Curfew,_ huh?

He doesn't like the sound of that.

Steve takes a walk around the neighbourhood to clear his head. The streets are busy on a Friday, seeming even more packed than they were during the day. A flashing advertisement board tells him it's nearly ten o'clock, which means he must have been sleeping for more than six hours. 

That annoys the hell out of him. Any action he meant to take will have to wait until tomorrow.

He passes an alley and finds it crowded -- full of people, seemingly waiting for a kind gift of food. He stops for just long enough to assess what he can, confused by it. A woman looks at Steve and snaps her fingers to sparks, clearly trying to scare him off; a nearby man has limbs so wildly malformed that, feeling a pang of guilt, Steve thinks there must have been growth hormone experimentation at work.

Steve was never that hungry anyway. He moves his gaze away and decides to turn south.

Thirty minutes later, he finds himself facing that gas station -- the one where that mutant had been rumoured to freeze someone to death. Staring at it, his back to the cemetery, Steve feels like this place must hold some answers. The pull is undeniable. He thinks about busting open the front doors and hunting around for clues, but -- clues to _what_? Is he really that desperate? What could he possibly find that might make sense to him? Either he'll discover something about the mutant -- and do _what_ with that knowledge? -- or he'll discover something about whoever investigated the incident and be right back where he started. His options are still pretty much the same: to either turn himself over to the authorities and trust in the government to set him up without doing him in, or to show up at Stark Tower and hope to God someone knows him.

He passes by the gas station without a second look.

The bodega owner, at least, recognizes him from that morning. Maybe seeing his desperation, he gives Steve a bunch of browning bananas along with a copy of the _New York Times._

Steve thanks him for his generosity and promises never to bother him again.

He thinks of hanging out in the cemetery a while, but it turns out that, too, is patrolled by security.

  


***

  


Steve wanders all night, too restless for an alternative. He eats two of the bananas and hands the others to some people loitering behind bars. Eventually he finds a bench directly under a streetlight and sits there reading the paper.

He reads for a long time. He reads it closely, entirely, word by goddamned word, then leafs to the beginning and starts all over again. He learns a lot. Freedom is a popular subject. Social welfare, too. People think the two clash; that's not a good sign. Mutants are ubiquitous and yet never called mutants; they seem instead synonymous with the term "society's ills." 

Security is almost definitely what's actually at fault for a lot of society's problems. That's not something the newspaper says; that's what Steve discerns. There are organizations bent on creating chaos -- the newspaper _does_ say that. The newspaper also seems to think, reading between the lines, that most of those organizations are mutant-run. 

Steve would bet good money they might be staffed by Enhanced, but he somehow doesn't strongly feel Enhanced persons are trying to run their own safety net into the ground.

Politics seem even more partisan than when he left. That doesn't bode well, either.

When he's finally finished, he folds the newspaper up best he can and stuffs it in his back pocket. He starts walking again, trying to mull all this over.

He concludes nothing solid.

He keeps on walking, straight until dawn.

  


***

  


Steve waits for security to clear out of Prospect Park, hovering as dawn clings to the horizon. Then he crawls under a thicket of shrubs and, propping leaves of the newspaper over himself, falls quickly into a restless sleep.

He wakes up when the newspaper is torn dramatically from over his face.

"That shit's dangerous, you know," a voice says; then -- "Oh, it's you!"

Steve blinks furiously into the blinding light of the sun. "...Jules?"

"Shit, man! What are you sleeping in the bushes for?"

"I don't have another option."

Jules helps him to his feet, extending a hand. "We sleep in the trees around here."

"Oh," Steve says, gesturing at nothing. "Of course. Why didn't I think of that?"

"No need to get facetious."

"Don't you tend to fall out of trees when you sleep in them?"

"We have a system."

"Right."

It looks to be the middle of the morning, and yet none of the passerby seem all that concerned to see a large man emerging from newspaper and shrubbery. "Can I help you?" he asks Jules, rubbing his neck.

"I wanted to see if I could help you," he says. "Should've guessed it was you. You seem to have just about the right idea about things, but not quite."

"I'm told that a lot."

Jules doesn't seem to like his tone. He looks Steve up and down, scrutinous. "So -- are you?"

Steve blinks. He opens his mouth. He really _hadn't_ thought he'd be recognized, and especially not from a kid this age. Maybe he's less obsolete than he thought. "I, uh… Well, I..."

"What d'you got -- strength? You've got a bit of a--" Jules gestures horizontally across Steve's shoulders -- "breadth to you. Crazy guess."

"Oh." Steve blinks at him. " _Oh._ You mean -- am I Enhanced?"

"Well, yeah."

"Oh, yeah! Yeah, I got -- strength." He nods. "You got it."

Jules glares at him, suspicious. "That everything or what?"

"Uh -- no. I guess I -- was sick, and I'm… not anymore." Jules keeps staring. Kid's got an ear for what's left unsaid. Steve sighs, shoving his hands humbly in his pockets. "Also got faster metabolism, stamina, healing…" He holds up his arm -- bloodied yesterday, today wholly healed. "Got a little taller, too."

Jules nods, finally satisfied Steve's told him enough. "You know you got lucky. Those things don't always work, tailored for strength."

"Those -- what? What don't?"

"You testing me now? Alright, guess that's fair."

"No, I just… you've run into a lot of people who're -- like me?"

The kid cocks an eyebrow. "You saying you haven't?"

"Well, I -- I kinda--"

But then Jules seems to intuit something. He steps back, taking in his clothes, his shoes, his outdated haircut. "Oh," he says then. His voice is full of sympathy. "You've been out of things a while."

"I -- I, yeah. I guess that's -- yeah. That's one way to put it."

Whatever Jules has decided, it's softened his guard. "Sorry," Jules says.

"It's -- it is what it is." Steve waves a hand, trying to move the conversation away from himself. "What do you know about these things? What can you tell me?"

"Well," the kid says cautiously. Steve feels suddenly like they're playing informational chicken. Neither one of them wants to expose the other to more than he needs to know. "You know how you were -- made?" 

"I -- well, yeah. Do… you?"

"You first."

Steve sighs. He decides he doesn't have much more to lose. "Serum, a chamber, a whole lot of power. That what you guessed?"

Jules nods. "How long've you been -- you know -- in the world?"

"Not long. You and your friends… you were really the first people I've talked to."

"Okay." Jules takes a breath. "Then you gotta know some things. Are there people looking for you?"

"I -- don't know."

"Fuck, man, c'mon." He looks agitated. "You gotta be _smarter_ than that. You gotta look out, or you'll end up back with them. I'm serious. Keep your head down -- _literally_." He points to the nearest park directory -- alight again, now that it's day. "Advertisements 101 -- they have sensors. They can tell your height, ethnicity, age, and how long they hold your attention. That's all they're supposed to know, right? But anyone who knows better knows better. _Never_ give your personal information to a machine." Jules looks around them, suddenly, as though to check whether anyone's around to overhear, human or otherwise. "The Dems are in power now but God only knows for how long. Besides that, there are fringe groups everywhere, constantly trying to take things into their own hands. We're only safe for so long, and the less people know about you, the better. Copy?"

Steve can't help but to smile a little. He salutes at him lazily. "Sir, yes, sir."

Jules cocks an eyebrow. "You think I'm joking?"

"No. I just know what a commander looks like. You're used to keeping your people safe. I get it."

Jules eyes him again. Steve pinches at his own eyes and reminds himself to stay consistent. "So there are a lot of people like -- me." He gestures at Jules, as though including him if it applies. "Do they -- do they come about in the same way?"

The kid sighs and scratches at the back of his neck, looking around again. "Sometimes. Look, I'm not the best person to be telling you this. You should be talking to Jack."

"Jack?"

"Works for UFO."

Steve must've misheard him. "UFO?"

"You-foe. United Federation of Enhanced. They're on our side -- don't look like that. You never heard of 'em?"

"No."

"They help folks like us get on our feet after -- you know. We get thrown out, discovered, or… fill in the blank." Jules gestures at him, as though to include his own enigmatic experience. "Jack's usually the main point of contact for Enhanced that show up aimless in NYC. You need to get hooked up with resources, a job, a place to stay? Jack can help. Though usually he finds you." Jules cocks his head, as though to figure out why Steve hasn't met him yet. "Guess you're pretty average. No offense."

"None taken," Steve says weakly.

"Look, I'll spread word. What's your name? First name only."

"Uh -- don't do that. I'll be fine."

"Pal, twice in two days I've found you wandering around looking lost as hell. Maybe it's time to accept that you need help."

Steve sighs at him. Jules briefly looks like he wants to argue him down, but then he waves a hand, helpless. "Do what you want. Just do me a favour and think about accepting the help when it comes."

"When Jack finds me?" Steve repeats slowly. 

"Or whoever."

"From UFO."

"Now you're just being deliberately obtuse," Jules accuses.

"If _they_ can just find me, why doesn't anyone else?"

"Sometimes they do." Jules shrugs. "Those are the poor souls who don't keep their heads down."

"Yeah, yeah."

"But like I say, UFoE has resources the rest of us don't. Usually something happens -- an _incident_ , as the mainstream puts it -- and Jack shows up. Or someone does, I guess; there's gotta be more like him."

"But it's Jack who found you."

"Haven't seen him in a while, but yeah. He gave me a job, place to stay for a long time. He taught me a lot. Gave me my nickname, made me aware of my choices, the names of schools that would take me if I wanted..." He shrugs, but it's laden with tension. "He's a good enough guy. If you trust me, you can trust him."

Steve can't help but feel skeptical. "Anything else you can tell me about this guy?"

"No." 

Firm, oddly so, like he's protecting Jack's anonymity. "Okay. What about this Federation? Who runs it, how's it funded? Is it government?"

"Nah, nah. Or--" He frowns. "Possibly? Captain America's gone weirdly mainstream lately…"

Steve lurches forward and grabs the kid's wrist. "Captain America?" He doesn't care how he looks. "What's Captain America got to do with this?"

"Whoa," Jules says, extricating his hand. "Sorry. Forget what you don't know. They're kinda few and far between, but you'll see recruiting ads for UFoE with Falcon Cap on them. Don't know how they're affiliated, but they are."

Steve's nodding, feeling a little faint. "Recruiting, huh?"

"Maybe that's not the word. It's not that they're militant -- not overtly so, anyway. That said, if Cap's involved with them, they might be. He's into some heavy shit these days."

"Guns?"

Jules flashes a wry grin. "What's a few explosions among superheroes?"

"Right," Steve says tersely. "Listen, this -- Jack. No chance he's--"

"What -- Cap? No way. Jack's a bookish white guy and that's all I'm saying about it. Fits neither one."

Steve's heart leaps again. "Neither -- Cap?"

"Don't tell me you've never heard about the angry one."

"Is... that how he's known?"

"People like Falcon fine, but the other's just got a mixed rep. Falcon does all the regular shit you'd expect from a resident superhero -- makes statements, public appearances, does everything he can to look like he's working for the good of the people. But Mad Cap? He just doesn't give a shit. Can't imagine why Falcon keeps agreeing to share the role with him, they're like night and day in their operations."

"Mad Cap? That bad?"

"Well, I mean -- take last week. Man carried four unconscious people out of a building in a fucking black ops suit -- and they were looking bad, I mean, they looked _bad_ , and not from anything Cap would've done -- before throwing a grenade in and not even flinching when the whole thing blew up." Jules makes a big exploding gesture with his hands. "How's that gonna look? Mainstream lost their minds about it, they never hear the bottom line -- that there were no reports of anyone getting hurt, and that at the end of the day he was shown to have saved four lives. Even he knows he's trouble so far as the public's concerned -- he stuck around just long enough to yell something about tolerance to standers-by before being swept away by Spiderman. News still wouldn't drop it for days."

"Any idea what he was blowing up?"

"Nope, and no one cares either. Mainstream doesn't like unexplained explosions going off in Manhattan -- can't think why. But tree kids tell me there's one less so-called 'genome experimentation lab' to worry about, so take that for what it's worth." He averts his gaze and shrugs, and he looks briefly young again, terribly so. "And that's the thing, I guess. Mainstream calls him 'Mad Cap' when they don't like what he's doing, but anyone who's actually met him knows better. I've met a lot of people whose lives are better because Mad Cap intervened. My theory? He's an Enhanced, too, just trying to do what's right in ways that Falcon can't stomach. It's the only reason I can think of that they'd work together like that. That guy is otherwise dragging Cap's name through the mud."

Steve's not sure what to say, but he can't get the strange smile off his face. Jules starts analyzing him again, eyes tracking over his features. 

"You're not what you seem," Jules says slowly. "Are you?"

Steve thins his mouth, trying to convey friendliness. "And here you haven't even told me how come you know so much about Enhanced."

The kid smirks a little, shrugs -- shy, almost; young again. Then he raises his chin, and Steve would swear he sees something flash in his eyes. 

" _Hey._ "

Steve feels it at once -- the snap to attention; the way his mind seems to otherwise go blank. He shakes his head hard, trying to get his thoughts back again, looking sidelong at Jules. "Alright," he says. "You know, I have a friend who can do that."

Jules seems surprised. "That right?"

"That and a lot more, to be honest."

He nods humbly. "Most telepaths can. All I do is command your attention."

"It was pretty decisive. You could probably train that up."

He cocks an eyebrow and looks away, equal parts anxious and annoyed. "Thank God you were here to say so or it might never have occurred to me."

Steve smiles. "Sorry."

"There are lots of options. As it is, it can get me out of situations if I'm really clever with it." He shrugs. "Not sure I'd want much more. With great power comes great responsibility, and all that."

Steve nods. He sure understands that. "Well, by the looks of things, it seems to make you into a natural leader."

"Whether I like it or not."

He knows that tone all too well, too. He tries to come up with something to commiserate over, but ultimately decides to let it drop. "Listen -- there anything else you can tell me about UFO? They have a headquarters or something?"

"Not one you're gonna find. It's a shadow org -- always changing membership, always moving around. Most likely it's just an everyday building with a different name over the door."

Steve nods. Guess he's gonna have to go to Stark Tower after all. "Thank you," he says, and extends a friendly hand. Jules shakes it, albeit looking a little unnerved. "I feel a lot more on my feet again."

"Yeah," Jules says airily. "I can see how all my lack of information really helped you. Listen -- let me help you properly. I don't want to find you in the bushes again." He pulls Steve beneath a nearby tree; points into its branches. "You see that bird up there, just sitting?"

"Sure."

"Not a bird." Jules winks and steps away. "Lots of them stored around here, and in pretty much any major park with branch cover. Be seriously careful, though, especially if you're not used to climbing trees. Every time someone falls out of one, we get a little closer to discovered. Don't climb up there until after dark -- and I mean _full_ dark, and not if anyone's nearby, either. The hammocks blend in with the trees and no patrolman will be able to see it up there with only a flashlight. Make sure you're well tucked in before anyone has a chance to spot you, though -- put everything in the hammock with you. It buttons up. Use it as intended, and for the love of God, _don't swing in it_." He points a stern finger in Steve's face, as though he looks like he might be prone to swinging a hammock fifty feet in the air. "Don't tell anyone where they are, either. Tree kids rely on anonymity to be safe. You fuck with us, we got a federation at our backs, you know that now. Right?"

"I got it," Steve assures him.

Jules nods, satisfied by what he sees on his face. Then he slaps Steve on the shoulder and steps backward down the path. "You get on your feet after all, that's fine, guy. But if you ever find yourself in need of another hand -- just remember you've got friends among the trees." Jules winks again, then turns away with a wave. "Drop my name if you need to -- it's worth something!"

  


***

  


It's going to be a long walk to Midtown. 

Stepping away from Prospect Park has a sense of finality to it that Steve's not sure he likes. He wends his way north, but swerves at the last minute down Livingston. He'd told himself not to walk down this particular memory lane, but Steve's never exactly been good at shying away from the temptation of nostalgia.

Their old apartment's still there. He'd expected it would be. He was worried if he saw it that he'd start waiting for Bucky to walk out of it, and now here he stands, doing that exact thing. 

He stands on the street and stares up at the third-floor window a while. The dressings are different. That doesn't tell him much. After eighteen years, they would be. They'd managed to swing the place at a reasonable price for where it is, thanks to the art portfolio haphazardly thrown together by Bucky and Natasha out of Steve's meagre offerings. Steve had been astounded to learn a few weeks later that his hobby drawings had somehow been good enough to qualify for an affordable rental price point, if they joined the artist's collective that was offering.

_("They think you're an artist," Bucky'd said as Steve had set down the last box._

_"They think every submission they get is art." Steve ran a hand under Bucky's shirt and pulled him close, despite his growling objections. "I wouldn't trust their judgment."_

_"So you're a snob."_

_"I'm old-fashioned."_

_"You're a snob," Bucky said, pressing a sloppy kiss against his neck, "but you're somehow not an artist."_

_"Are all artists automatically snobs?"_

_"You're being a snob about your so-called 'hobby drawings,' and yet at the same time you refuse to acknowledge they’re art. Yeah. I'd say you're an artist."_

_Steve pulled him in at the ribs, fingers tangling in his hair. "Go away," he murmured._

_“Think you’re stuck with me now,” Bucky said, and kissed him slow.)_

Steve finds himself standing at the building's front door, staring at the buzzers. The label for #3 reads _Reyes_ \-- different from what it was. It'd been Bahramfar when Steve was there. These things are never labeled correctly. He doubts that Bucky would have stayed in the place after Steve was gone anyway. He imagines him pacing himself into a state of insanity in an apartment filled with Steve's things while Steve himself was missing. Someone among the Avengers might've switched apartments with him until the lease was up; he might've wanted that. 

He thinks of where Bucky might've moved to. If he's still in the Heights.

Steve traces the outline of that round buzzer with his finger, then lets his hand fall away. He turns and finally sets down the street, toward the water, feet dragging with what he doesn't want to leave behind. 

Buildings tower higher through Brooklyn now. Many businesses have changed hands, though some remain that he recognizes. He and Bucky used to meet Sam and Nat for brunch at that cafe; there's that "farm-fresh" restaurant that drove Bucky nuts. Steve grins shyly to his feet. Bucky must hate that it's still open. He wonders how many more over-the-top reviews Bucky's left on Yelp. 

And -- it is easier this time, turning up on the other side of a number of decades. Bucky's been out here; he's known these streets. He's alive, at least probably. That helps with… all this. Steve's lungs take in the air with a bit too much ardor. He forces himself to look forward, worried he's going to wind up chasing down ghosts if he lets himself reminisce too hard. When he gets to the Promenade he leans out over the river and takes in the changes to the Manhattan skyline, pretending he's a tourist, trying to stay grounded. 

There are a lot of changes. New buildings tower, nestled between familiar ones. One close to the shore stands at what must be 80 storeys. But any close observation is soon interrupted; his eyes are drawn to the flash of a large concrete building face that's been tasked with projecting advertisements into Brooklyn. 

_Surety, Sanctity, Security,_ boasts one image; women and men stand in tac gear around it, dressed in black and orange. Each of them with crossed arms, the intended impression -- and the successful one -- is of intimidation. Then, before Steve's eyes, the billboard changes to boast a name: _Rectify Solutions_ , followed by a phone number.

Something about it instills in Steve a solid and immovable sense of dread. He watches the billboard flash back and forth a few times, trying to fathom what kind of world would allow an advertisement like this to tower without outcry over the city. 

Behind him, another computer terminal is being consulted by what looks to Steve to be a group of tourists. He thinks about asking the computer for information on the company, but decides against it. He's pretty sure it's in his best interest to keep his head down where the systems are concerned.

Instincts roused, Steve suddenly feels like he has to move. He sets down the promenade with his hands in his pockets, trying to force himself into looking like he belongs. It's ridiculous to feel negatively appraised by a billboard, but now his existential malaise has become contaminated with anxiety about all his ignorance about this world. New York's not the same. He'd expected that, but he hadn't expected... 

It's not like they'd boasted Hydra insignias, but the comparison is hard to shake.

It's a nice morning. Steve tries to focus on that. The sun's a little warm, the air a little dense -- signs of impending summer. As Steve moves further down, joggers give way to couples, to friends setting off to brunch. If he blurs his eyes, the only things that seem out of place are the transparent computer directories erected every half-mile, the anomalies on the skyline, and the fashions that people wear.

The path widens out. He's faced with a series of tents, extending down the Promenade far as Steve can see. It's a farmer's market, by the looks of things, blossoming out into residential culs-de-sac where the Promenade rubs up against the city. 

Bucky would love this kind of thing. Every Saturday since they'd lived in Brooklyn in the twenty-first century, Bucky used to leave for the farmer's market. If Steve was awake on time, he'd go with him. There seemed to be something sensory about it that Bucky loved: the way colour burst vibrant in every corner; the way smells wafted and ebbed; the way sound crested and faded, joyful and ambient. If Steve never fully understood the appeal of going every week, he understood how Bucky loved it, and so Steve loved it too. He walked with him with quiet fondness, their hands entwined, enjoying the way the sun made Bucky soft around the edges. 

Steve's smiling now, but it's more from sadness than anything. It's too much to hope that Bucky would be here, but he stands still anyway, looking mournfully over at the produce stands. It's tempting to wonder how Bucky is different. If he's still moonlighting as Captain America -- does he still associate himself with the Avengers? What else has he become? Is he bitter, angry? Have the years worn their way into him? Have they made him grey, or wise? 

Does he still go to farmer's markets?

Steve forces himself forward, still thinking of Bucky. Maybe that's why that guy by the tomatoes looks familiar. The slope of his shoulders, his casual gait, the way he stands a little sideways to try to keep as much of the field open to him as possible...

Steve's heart slams with the sudden rise of intrigue. It's far from likely, but could it… be?

He's being an idiot. It's wishful thinking. Only -- only he's pretty sure he'd recognize Bucky anywhere. He's done it before, under more turbulent circumstances. This could be him. The man's wearing glasses, but the purse of his mouth...

Oh, God. Steve's done for, now. He watches the man slip three tomatoes into a bag, watches the splay of his fingers with incredulous conviction. His shoulders are square and calm, the posture utterly _Bucky_ , and -- 

The man turns. He peers casually along the fruit stands, as though realizing he's being watched. Steve takes in a sharp breath. It _looks_ like him, if he'd gotten older. Lines are set deep around scrutinous eyes; grey streaks at his temples, his hair shorter and swept back. It's long enough to stay tucked behind his ears, falling a bit shaggy over his neck, and Steve would _swear_ \--

He calls out Bucky's name, or tries to, but no sound leaves his throat. He's been devastated by a stranger. Steve finally kicks his legs into motion and stumbles forward into the apples, then ducks to the floor, ashamed of his convictions. Bucky's left hand is visible, it's visibly flesh, and that seems to damn him, but for how long it's been... could prosthetics have progressed this far?

He turns and peers back over the fruit stand. He can't think what to do. The man who looks like Bucky talks to the clerk, and oh God, that smirk -- it's him. It's Bucky. Steve's left to crouch there in stupid relief, foolish with certainty. It's a Saturday morning at a farmer's market in Brooklyn, and he's about to derail this man's day. 

Bucky cranes his neck as though looking for something and moves down the booth. Steve, hastily, still crouching behind the apples, follows. He's transfixed by his movements. There's something in his posture -- an easy confidence that Steve's felt like he's missed. He'd had it before the war and here it is again. Far from slouching with the burdens of his past, Bucky stands tall and relaxed, like he's--

There's a slight turn in his posture. 

He _definitely_ knows he's being watched.

Steve's knees lock up. He stumbles forward. He doesn't care if Bucky finds him -- he _wants_ Bucky to find him. But he doesn't know how to go about this. He doesn't know what to say. _Hi, Bucky, long time no see. Hi, Bucky -- how've you been? Eighteen years, huh? That's a long time. You seeing anyone? You married now?_

He wouldn't be married, except... that he might be married. Bucky of the past wouldn't have married, but Bucky of the present -- his heart pounds to think it. He might be shacked up, at the very least. A man like Bucky wouldn't stay single long. He never was before the war; Steve just happened to be in the right place at the right time, and now--

Bucky is gone.

Panic grips him. Steve can't find him. He'd looked away for a _second_ and now he's gone from his field of vision. Steve blinks and stands tall, freezing in place. Bucky's always known how to get himself lost, but this seems somehow above and beyond. He's desperate to find him, though, sure he'll know what to do--

A hand fists in his shirt. 

Steve grabs at it. He blinks as he spins around and it's him, it's _Bucky_ , with all that grey and those glasses, tomatoes in one hand until they're dropped to the ground. "Hi," Steve breathes, face relaxing with force of feeling.

Bucky pulls at him hard and throws his back against a post. "Who are you," he growls, "and what do you want?"

It's him. It sounds like him. A little coarser, maybe. Steve could cry with relief. "You know who I am, Bucky. You know me, come on." 

Steve holds steady at Bucky's wrist, squeezing gently, as though it'll help. Something awful ripples over Bucky's face at the sound of his name. He blinks and lets go, stepping back, assessing him, and for a while they breathe at each other, two feet apart.

The market has shuddered to a halt around them. 

"Jack?" calls a hesitant voice from somewhere afar.

"I'm good," Bucky calls back, eyes fixed on Steve. "Old friend."

"Sure," says the voice. Slowly, the market shifts back to life. Steve has the impression that strange goings-on are part of folks' daily lives, something they've learned to ignore. People step around the two of them as though they were pillars, hardly worth regard; even the tomatoes on the ground lay untrodden and unacknowledged.

Slowly, hands held in front of him, Steve stoops. He picks up the bag and hands it to Bucky -- a gesture of good faith, or so he hopes. "I hope they're not bruised."

Bucky stares at Steve with narrowing eyes, then takes the bag, wordless. His eyes tick over Steve's form, taking in his stature, his clothing, his defensive stance; then, as though angry, he steps forward and takes Steve's jaw in one hand. 

He forces Steve's face to the side, unbalancing him. Steve lets him, holding his eye through flurried breaths. Bucky's left fingers stroke along the line of his neck and he can feel, now, that it's a prosthetic. It's only been made to look like flesh by some present-day magic. 

Whatever Bucky finds seems to satisfy him. He lets go and steps back, giving Steve one last appraisal. 

"Hey," he says, hoarse.

Steve feels his shoulders relax. His eyebrows steeple with something like hope. "Hi," he breathes.

They stare at each other a while, just looking. Bucky's fingers twist in the plastic of the bag. 

"Bucky, I -- I wasn't trying to sneak up on you. This was a fluke, I was on my way to Manhattan--"

"Manhattan."

"To Stark Tower, to try and... I just decided to take the Promenade. I didn't know you'd be here, Bucky. Believe me, I didn't want to do things this way."

Bucky doesn't say anything. The way he's staring, the tick in his jaw, the rise and fall of his breathing all tell Steve he's thinking. Steve takes the opportunity to steady his breath as he takes him in.

"I haven't been around for very long," Steve goes on, when Bucky still doesn't say anything. "Just a couple days. I've been trying to get myself oriented, find my way--"

"A couple of _days_."

"Feels like longer, but yesterday morning, I..."

Steve doesn't say it. Bucky waits anyway. 

"Got here," Bucky finally says, deathly quiet. There's a ring of threat to it. 

Steve's not sure what he's going to do if Bucky doesn't believe him. "Yeah. From when I left. Direct, like it was nothing."

There's a clench in Bucky's jaw. Suddenly Steve can hear the faintest whistle in his breath. 

"You know how long it's been?" Bucky croaks. He sounds awful, and wonderful.

"Yeah, Buck. I know." He coughs a nervous laugh, but it sounds more like distress than anything. "I know what year it is. It was kinda unavoidable. All the changes..."

A rise of Bucky's chest, and then a slow fall, like it's taking everything he has to keep himself calm. "What happened?" Bucky asks.

"I don't know. I just -- appeared, by the warehouse, still running. Continuous. It was like no time had passed, Bucky, I want you to -- I had no idea what happened. Until I did."

"Until you _did_."

"I just mean -- until I knew I jumped ahead. Why are you mad at me? I thought--" But he bites his tongue in time. "I don't know how, or why I'm here now, Bucky, I swear it. I'm just trying to get on my feet. I didn't know what else to do, I was just -- walking. That's it. I was walking and I saw you and I don't know how, but that's the God's honest truth."

Bucky evaluates him again; then, the suspicion on his face edging slowly ever closer to sympathy, he gives a slight nod. "Stark Tower, huh?" he grinds, then licks his lips, chin rising in defiance.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I didn't know how to find anyone else."

Bucky waits, but Steve's not sure what else he expects him to say. "That was risky," Bucky finally says.

"It was that or sleep in the trees indefinitely. I…" Steve narrows his eyes at him. "Do you know… Jules?"

Bucky's eyebrows fly up. "Jules found you?"

"By fluke. We met in an alley."

"So -- you slept... in the trees."

"Uh… sort of."

"Sort of."

"I slept in the bushes… near some trees?"

"Where? Don't say the bushes again, Jesus _Christ_ \-- don't joke about this, Steve. I can see the stupid smirk on your face."

Bucky's not wrong; the corner of Steve's mouth does cock up. He can't help it, even after he was reprimanded for what he hadn't yet done. "Prospect Park," Steve says quietly. "Where else would I go?"

Bucky blinks at him, twice in a row. Something familiar sparks in the back of Steve's mind. He can't say what, except that it feels like relief. "So he trusted you," Bucky says. "Jules."

"Helped me with food, accommodations. Didn't want to impose longer than I had to."

Bucky's expression starts to shift, so slowly, so slight. Steve sees it happen -- but then, he knows him. His features are harsher in general, now, Steve can see; they're a little more gaunt, skin pulling a little closer to the bone. He's still goddamned beautiful, though. Steve's breath grows deep as he gets used to the look of him. 

"It's good to see you, Bucky. You have no idea." A grin flickers helpless onto Steve's face. "I saw a figurine of you in a shop. Heard about 'Mad Cap.' You got some reputation, huh?"

"Stop talking," Bucky says shortly. His eyes flit around nervously, and -- yeah, that's him. That's Bucky, all right. "You really found me in a _day_?"

"I'm glad that I did, but it wasn't by design. I... doubt most people know about your affinity for farmer's markets, if that's your concern."

Bucky's eyes narrow. "Thought this was a fluke."

"Wouldn't have given the place a second glance if I hadn't thought there was a chance I might find you."

Bucky's expression drops hard. Steve's does, too. "Well," Bucky says, throat stuck with nerves or discomfort. "Guess I gotta work on that."

"I didn't mean to," Steve begins, but then he falls short. He’s not sure what he's sorry for, but he can't seem to fight the urge to say it.

Bucky opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then he turns abruptly away, nodding as though for Steve to come after him. "Come with me."

Steve frowns at the suddenness of it. "Buck?"

"Can't stay here. Attracts attention. I frequent this place, I don't want to find a new one."

Steve steps to. "I know those people," Bucky explains a little lower as Steve comes within range. "They don't know me. Bucky doesn't exist. Get it?"

"I got it." 

"I'll show you where I live. You can have something to eat, take a rest, shower. Hate to say it, pal, but you look like shit." He looks at Steve sidelong. "You sure you slept in those bushes?"

"Bucky -- you don't have to--"

He cuts off when tension hitches high in Bucky's shoulders. He turns slowly to look at Steve, eyes narrow, grey, steely with authority. 

Something indescribable knots in Steve's gut. "Sorry," he mutters at once, though he's not sure why.

"Don't be sorry." Bucky glances at his bag of tomatoes, as though annoyed something so pedestrian is still part of this day. "Faster, if you don't mind. I want to get started on this carbonara."

Steve's not sure why he's hesitating, except that this doesn't feel right, suddenly. "Bucky, can we--"

Bucky steps dead in his tracks and turns back to face him with the sort of severity that reminds Steve profoundly of Nick Fury. "Steve." His voice is low but Steve can hear the crack in it: thin, but foundational, as though extending to his core. "How often over the last twenty years do you think I've thought about finding you?"

Steve blinks at him, dumbfounded.

"And in how many of those scenarios do you think the first thing I did was bring you home?" Bucky nods him forward. "Let me. I can't be a bigger risk to you than Stark. I'm not acting blind, and I'm not luring you into a trap. I hope you trust that much."

"I do, but it's just -- you just _found_ me."

"My security system will run you down when we get there."

"Security… seems kinda prevalent here, Buck."

Bucky shakes his head. "It's not that kind of system. You think I'd let something like that into my house? Just -- Steve, look, you're really not the least of my security problems. I take in a lot of strays these days of questionable origins and I'm not dead yet. You're not exactly in much of a position to negotiate, either -- what are you gonna do, go back to the trees? So just get the hell over whatever hangup you're on and come -- _home_. Would you?" He exhales hard and there's a shake to it, audible. All Steve wants is to take his face in his hands and kiss him steady. "It's been twenty goddamned years, Steve. At least let me make you something the fuck to eat."

They're a foot apart, but it feels like miles.

“Let's go,” Bucky says again -- a little softer this time. "You coming?"

"Yeah, Buck," Steve says, softer still. "I'm coming."

Bucky nods at him, looking him up and down once again; and then he turns, and Steve follows him, trusting Bucky to guide him home.

  



	4. A Mighty Fortress

  


The 'security system' Bucky was referring to takes the form of a towering bullmastiff that presses Steve against the wall the second he steps into the apartment.

"Hey, Burrito." Bucky throws his keys to the side and slides off his shoes with little regard for the laces, watching the pair of them with suspicious interest. "Seems like Steve Rogers to me. What do you think?"

Burrito sniffs Steve systematically, but seems to decide he's all right and drops his paws off Steve's shoulders. Bucky fights some hint of a smile and pats the dog's side, shooting Steve a subdued look. "Yeah," he mutters. "Me too."

Steve's taken aback by -- everything. Bucky's apartment is small and untidy, unabashedly _him_ : the colours are dark but warm, books piled everywhere, topped by various electronics. It's something like organized chaos -- something Bucky would know his way around, but would lead him to snap at anyone who tried to mess with his system. While Steve would have never imagined this for him, there's no doubt that it fits. 

"You live alone?" Steve asks idly, taking it all in.

"Apart from Burrito, yeah." Bucky slides his glasses off his face and tosses them on the table next to the door, like he won't need them for a while. Definitely a cover, then. "Prefer the quiet."

"Sure," Steve says. Bucky turns toward the kitchen and there's something stilted in the way he moves -- something much more like what Steve remembers, far from the casual stance held at the market. 

It pangs in him hard. Otherwise at a loss, Steve puts his hand out and lets Burrito sniff interestedly at his fingers. "Never pegged you for much a dog person."

It's a trick, and Bucky knows it is. They'd spent the five months before Steve fell out of time arguing about whether or not it was prudent to adopt one. 

_("What if we die?"_

_"We're not gonna die."_

_"What if we have to bail on short notice? We're responsible for a life here, Rogers."_

_"That's kinda the idea."_

_"...Oh, Jesus. Don't tell me you want--"_

_"No, no."_

_"Oh God. You do."_

_"All I'm asking for is a dog.")_

"Yeah, well," Bucky says. "Once it became apparent I was here pretty permanently I decided to give it a whirl. Been a couple dogs since then." He nods at the wall. Steve turns to see picture after picture, hung staggered in a row. One of them shows Bucky taking a pitt's face in his hands, smiling fondly; another shows a much-younger Bucky curled up in sleep while a retriever-cross lies on him and looks at the camera as though to warn against approach. "Romanov can always break in here anyway. She'll rehome the little asshole if I ever get taken out."

The 'little asshole' seems anything but little. "You're still in the field, then."

"Sometimes. Not so much as Cap. The idea is to slowly retire him from public life, but Sam has more trouble grasping that concept than I do. We, uh… share the title."

"Yeah," Steve says, smiling a little sad. "I heard." 

"But we're both really getting too old for that shtick. Sam really should've retired five years ago at least. He just never actually gets around to making a plan for it."

Steve steps slowly closer, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Well, you look great for a hundred and twenty."

"Yeah," Bucky says, smiling a little. He looks more relaxed, now that Steve's passed the Burrito test. "Jesus. You too." He holds up a pan. "Omelette okay?"

"Sure." Steve leans against a wall and watches Bucky twirl a pan handily in the air before setting it on the stove. "So in real time now, you're -- what, fifty?"

"Forty-nine, fifty-two, somewhere in there. Depends on whether you count the lost years." Bucky avoids his eye. "I say I'm 39 for my cover. People believe that fine. I get a lot of shit for looking younger than I am. Now that you're here, maybe you'll take some of the heat off."

"Thirty-nine, huh?"

Bucky presents himself behind the counter. "Forty's unseemly, don't you think?"

"Sure," Steve says, smiling a little.

"Easier to get a good lay, anyway. Younger guys can stomach 39, but not 40. Go figure." Bucky's mouth curves as he says it, but it feels a little off -- put-upon, as though for Steve's benefit. "This way I get described as 'distinguished' instead of 'old.'"

"Well, what's a white lie of eighty years gonna cost you?"

"Exactly." Bucky's eyes glint, a little wolfish. Suddenly Steve sees the appeal.

He picks up an apple to distract himself. "So, uh… that guy in the market called you Jack." 

"Ah, yeah." Bucky pulls a face. "I couldn't be Barnes forever. Hated James; always have." He doesn't say the rest, but Steve hears it anyway: he wasn't about to go by Bucky, either. "Jack was a cover, until it wasn't. Now it's just me."

"Jack... Benny, I assume."

Bucky gives a burst of laughter. Steve hadn't expected it; he breaks into a grin, relieved. "Oh, yeah," Bucky says. "That's me. Regular comedian."

"Spitting image."

"I usually get Jack Flash. Nobody remembers the classics."

"Just you and me, pal."

It's the wrong thing to say. The energy seems to drain from Bucky's façade. He turns away from Steve, tapping his fingers on the counter as he slides a board out from against the wall, and suddenly -- Steve aches. Two days ago he and Bucky had leaned into one another in the shower and kissed each other stupid, all steam and heat and easy touch. Now -- strangers. Bucky's turning away from him, from the things they share -- and why shouldn't he? He's not...

"You're not Barnes anymore," Steve says quietly.

Bucky reaches for the bag of tomatoes and examines one carefully. "No." There's a pause, full with discomfort. He finally looks at Steve through his eyelashes. "I'm not hiding my name from you, Steve."

"It's fine."

"I'll tell you."

"You don't have to."

"You're gonna make fun."

That surprises him. "Why would I make fun?" But then he leans back, plagued by possibility. "Whose… name did you take, exactly?"

" _No one's_. This is all me. Maybe that's the problem." He frowns. "Stop that."

"I'm just sitting here," Steve says, grinning.

"You're _thinking._ "

"Jack… Dempsey?"

Bucky sighs.

"Jack Diamond," Steve says.

"Yeah. That's what I want my cover to do. Associate me with a gangster."

"Well, I'm running out of options here. Kerouac?"

"You gonna let me answer or are you having a nice time guessing?"

Steve grins on. Bucky rolls his eyes and turns his face away. "Jack -- Sways," he mutters.

"Jack… what?" 

"It's... thematically relevant."

" _Thematically_ relevant."

Bucky cringes. "Don't be like this."

"Swayze taken, or…?"

"I needed a name for a thing I do."

"Yeah? You take up swaying while I was gone?"

Bucky glowers at him. Steve's grin broadens. "I play music at a local bar," Bucky says. "Alright?"

"You -- what? What do you do?"

"Every Friday." Now that he's said it, it seems easier for Bucky to bear. "It's nice. Relaxes me."

"It _does_?"

"Recent thing. Last few years. Oh -- get that look off your face, asshole, I liked music once."

"I'm just... trying to imagine you performing. In front of a crowd. Of people. On purpose."

Bucky smiles, a little, like imparting a secret. Steve's breath hangs, suddenly, wanting, in his chest. 

"Used to like attention, too," Bucky reminds him.

"I -- guess you did." Steve exhales, rubs his chest. "What _kind_ of music, exactly?"

"Usually start out mellow, push to drunken singalong fodder toward the end of the night."

"No, what do you -- play?"

"Oh." He's shy again. He gestures vaguely toward the living room. Somewhere in behind piles of books, Steve sees a couple guitars set on stands. "Picked it up in the late '20s sometime. Things got quiet, I needed a hobby. That… stood out. Dunno why." He turns back to his tomatoes, shaking his head. "Turned out to be a natural with it. Hey -- no fret callouses." He waves his left fingers in the air. Under the focus of the pocket light, Steve can see a synthetic mesh glimmering, almost imitating pores -- a sleeve, it must be, to make his prosthetic appear realistic. 

"Wow," Steve says, relieved to hear irony's entrenched itself in his tone. "That's -- wow, Buck. I gotta sit down."

Bucky smiles wryly and kicks a chair out from under the bar. "Listen. I get up on a stage and make people trivially happy every once in a while. Thought you'd be proud of that."

"I… am, actually. It's all just a little..." 

"Yeah," Bucky says. "I get it. Take your time." 

Steve raps his knuckles against the counter and casts around for an adequate distraction. The kitchen, if cluttered, is more than functional -- Bucky clearly spends a lot of time here. Recipes appear pinned to the wall, a thin scrawl decorating the margins. "So you let people stay here, huh?"

"Now and then," Bucky says. He must've heard something in the tone of Steve's voice, because he looks at him sidelong. "What've you heard?"

"Not much."

"Well, someone told you I host kids."

"I guess Jules told me a few things." Steve smiles. "Also about 'Mad Cap' and his affinity for blowing up buildings in Manhattan, but I guess that's a different thing."

Their eyes meet. Bucky's are dancing with mischief. Steve's so thrilled by it he finds he has to take a grounding breath.

"That building had it coming," Bucky says.

"I'm sure it did," says Steve.

"What else did you hear?"

"Unconnected to Mad Cap, heard all about a guy who helps Enhanced get on their feet. I thought that was probably Banner, but..." Steve gestures at him. "Guess you're 'bookish' now."

Bucky gives a sudden, barking laugh again. "Is that what Jules said?"

"In fairness, you do have books."

"Guess I do." Bucky picks up a bowl and starts whisking eggs with ease and affinity, like he's done this every day for years. "I haven't seen Jules in a while. He doing good?"

"Yeah." Steve nods. "He seems -- great, actually. From my perspective, anyway. He's a good leader, I can see that much. I dunno your role in his life, but he -- he reminded me of you, a couple times. Just in passing." That pesky smile pulls at Steve's lips again. He's gotta get that under wraps.

"Yeah? What'd he do, blow up a treehouse?"

Steve grins, then, helpless. "More like he approached me both a desire to help and extreme trepidation."

Bucky winces. "Oh, take it back!"

"He read me right on the first try. Found me food and a place to stay before he even registered that I might be 'enhanced' in any way. Good kid. Heart of gold. I liked him a lot."

Bucky nods for a long time, wiping down the counters as he waits for the pan to heat up. "That's good," he finally says. "Thanks for letting me know."

Steve can't tell what made it awkward. There's so much about this he can't read. Bucky is eminently recognizable, _intensely_ like himself, and yet -- inaccessible; unknowable. All he's doing is making an omelette, but Steve sees a poise in it he can't parse.

He takes a deep breath and searches for a new topic, just to fill the space. "He also mentioned that Cap headed up something called… UFO?"

Bucky looks up, abrupt. "Don't call it that."

"You in line with the aliens now?"

"Oh, here we go."

Steve raises his hands on either side of him. "I'm just repeating what I heard."

"It's called the United Federation of Enhanced," Bucky says. "If you know that much, you know that's what it's called."

"I don't know a damn thing. Who approved a name like UFO?"

"It's not the name I would've picked either, but it was the only one that didn't make us all want to kill each other."

" _That_ was your compromise?"

"Says a little something about the state of the union, doesn't it?" Bucky confers. "Imagine the reject pile."

"How long did it take you to negotiate this?"

"Eight months." He nods seriously at Steve's raised eyebrows. "I'm not kidding. Weekly meetings just to name the thing. It was hell."

"How long has that been a thing, the -- Federation?"

"Eight years or so," Bucky says. Maybe reading his tension, he pulls out a bizarre metal drawer that turns out to hold dishes; starts unloading plates into the cupboard, three to a hand. "We went through a couple false starts -- tried to form without Stark, for one. That didn't take. Politics have been…" He makes a face and then waves an impatient hand. "Suffice to say we had more than a few blowouts before anything stuck. After you... uh... left," he stilts out, and there's that coating awkwardness again -- "SHIELD rose and collapsed again -- I know -- plus some other competing factions tried to step in. We got territorial, decided to incorporate to try to keep foothold in the region. It's all very… I can't explain it quickly."

Steve's not sure where to start. "What… is it, though, really? What do you do at UFO?"

"You-foe," Bucky says.

"I know what I heard."

Bucky gives him a pained expression and hips the dishwasher aggressively closed. "You're gonna say it's SHIELD. It's not SHIELD. It's kind of in the _spirit_ of SHIELD..."

"So it's SHIELD," Steve says flatly.

"It's not SHIELD. It's run by a board, twelve of us: Me, Sam, Natasha, Maria, Clint, Stark, Rhodes, Wanda, Peter Parker, plus a few names you won't know. We had our false starts, then we came together to form this thing five or so years ago. It... works. Mostly." He winces. "We make agendas for our board meetings and then triple the time it would take any normal person to talk through it just to accommodate in-fighting. But it works. Sometimes it is a complete clusterfuck, to be honest with you, but at the end of the day we get shit done. We just try not to talk to each other too much in the meantime, or, you know, cross paths… make eye contact… be in the same building at the same time..."

"That bad, huh?"

"Maybe not. Just trying to brace you for the vitriol if you ever get roped into a meeting." Bucky waves a hand at him, as though his appearance might be treated like a problem to be solved. "The important thing is, the board's fundamentally on the same page. Ideals -- yeah, we all know why we're there. It's just tactics and organization we can't agree on."

Steve's eyebrows cant up. "Oh, is that all?"

"Listen, it took us a long time to get even that far. At this point, we take the successes as they come."

Steve watches him move around the kitchen. He sounds so firm, so much like a leader. "Frankly, I… guess I'm a little surprised Stark didn't stay at odds with you out of principle alone," Steve mutters, letting himself dip into the annals of the past.

There's a tick in Bucky's jaw. He doesn't look at him; keeps chopping vegetables. Steve wonders how much the Winter Soldier days really factor into his life anymore. 

"Sorry," Steve says distantly.

Bucky waves off the apology. "To be honest -- no offense -- the fact that you disappeared helped Stark set his shit to the side. Nobody could figure out what the hell happened to you. That vexed Stark to the point of scientific obsession and I didn't exactly want to think about anything but getting you back for… a long time." He shrugs a single shoulder, but it's anything but nonchalant. "That at least got us talking. Banner liaised for a while -- he's dead now, by the way; heart attack, few years back. It was bound to happen someday. Left behind a shit-ton of nigh-incomprehensible research…" 

Bucky's eyes flick up to him, then away again. "Anyway," he continues. "Time passed; we started to figure out Hydra's whole thing with Enhanced in the process, and me and Stark wound up working together pretty well on it. UFoE started counter-recruiting -- me, Nat, and Rhodes trained Enhanced recruits while Stark handled the science angle. Kept trying to figure out how to get you back the whole time and utterly failed at it, but we had an organization to run, and time kept slipping on." He gestures at Steve loosely with the point of his knife. "Now I guess we're here."

Steve watches Bucky move around the kitchen for a while, each of them at a loss for what to say next. Bucky finishes dicing his garlic and drops the knife a little abruptly, flexing his prosthetic as though it's cramping up. Steve wonders how much like an arm this new prosthetic is. 

"I wouldn't have wanted you to dwell, Bucky," Steve finally says, quiet. "I'm glad you didn't."

For the first time, Bucky looks at him with something other than twinkling intrigue. "Little late there, Rogers," he says, giving a thin, weary smile. "Could've used that 18 years ago."

"In my defense," Steve says, "I got here as fast as I could."

Bucky smiles again, better this time; it reaches all the way to his eyes. Steve's chest aches to see all the ways it's unfamiliar -- to see the lines that spread when he does it. "Anyway," Bucky says, and turns to cut pull leaves off a plant on the counter. "I guess I'm trying to say that nothing's changed all that much."

"Yeah," Steve says dryly. "I'm hard-pressed to see the difference."

Bucky puts the leaves on a cutting board, along with an onion from the fruit bowl, and plants them in front of Steve. "Chop these."

Steve wrinkles his nose at it, then flicks his eyes up to see Bucky looking at him. "Christ," Bucky says, rolling his eyes. He takes the onion away. "Never-fucking-mind."

"I can do it."

"Don't bother. You'll cry all over my kitchen."

Relief blooms in him, full and luxuriant. It's like all he'd been waiting for was for Bucky to insult him. "Just like old times, huh?"

"No thanks. Cry on your own time."

The basil's left where it was. Steve takes up the knife, finding he's glad for something to do. "So you got Barton back in New York."

"Ah, yeah," says Bucky. "Didn't take much. Kids are grown now; one restored the farm, stayed out west. One's a lawyer, liaises for us."

"You mean rigs the system."

"Isn't that what I said?"

Steve just smiles as he chops. "There's a lot of Enhanced now," Bucky continues. "You might've noticed. Sort of a social mainstay. UFoE's the main resource system for Enhanced since Hydra fell off the grid -- combat training, legal support, social support, the works."

"Hydra's off the _grid_?"

Bucky looks like he doesn't so much believe it. "Well… on paper. Doesn't mean they're dead. Just means they're not making waves. I think it's just a matter of time," he adds darkly. "Dunno if you saw that billboard off the Promenade--"

"I saw it all right."

Bucky nods. "Hydra roots, you ask me. Rectify's always on about Enhanced imprisonment, neutering, control… They're pretty well-stocked, kind of ubiquitous, and got government backing to boot." 

Steve furiously opens his mouth, but Bucky holds up a silencing hand. "Do me a favour and cool your moral outrage a minute. Government also supports us, not least by turning a blind eye to the giant chunk of tech money from the major conglomerates that seems to go nowhere. In exchange for that deal, the military gets tech innovations through Stark and Pym, which is… its own level of concern. That said, government also turns a blind eye to the giant chunk of money that disappears into orgs like Rectify." Bucky shakes his head; adds oil to the pan. "Federal politics are a goddamned clusterfuck, Steve, moreso than when you left, and even moreso than my own board of assholes. A lot of backdoor brokering gets done to ensure neither org gets caught up in red tape, or else that we both do when the government wants to slow us down. But it's kind of a matter of time before UFoE tries to take out Rectify, or vice-versa. They're a scourge to Enhanced; they should've been gone yesterday, you ask me, but blah blah, first amendment, blah blah. At least the law restrains them." 

Steve sighs hand, leaning against his forearms against the counter, watching Bucky as he throws onions and garlic into the pan with easy flourish. "At least we don't have to fight these kids anymore," Steve remarks, watching it cook. "Sounds like Enhanced aren't used so much as tools… or… maybe more?"

"We definitely work to turn it around," Bucky agrees, "but now that the other side has a grasp on how to manufacture mutant powers in previously unpowered people, a lot of people are being exploited in ways that aren't so visible. Then there's the pressures of regular society -- a lot of Enhanced never integrate into mainstream jobs or institutions, which I personally think is fine, but it causes a lot of social anxiety. You hear of incidents fairly often where a kid without a grasp on their power fucks someone up pretty bad."

"Like that gas station off 5th Ave." 

Bucky looks up with surprise. "You heard about that?" Then he narrows his eyes. "Sounds like you did a lot of recon for someone only around a day."

"Not like I had anywhere else to be. It was also kinda the only place I knew was still there at first."

He nods and shrugs, as though acquiescing the point. "I mean, yeah. That's a prime example. We found that guy; he's training with us now, by the way, getting his powers under control pretty quick. He'll be given a new identity at the end of it. Usually stuff like that happens when an Enhanced's power is new or growing or they otherwise don't know what the hell they're doing. Kid needed an out for other reasons, too, so we hooked him up with resources and a degree of oversight to his benefit. That gives him a leg up while also basically giving him self-determination and power over himself. Fewer get exploited and fewer exploit because of what we do, though society doesn't get that yet."

Steve nods. "So you're underground."

"Mostly," Bucky says, throwing the tomatoes and the basil into the pan. "And so are a lot of our graduates. They're either part of society passing as normies, or they never integrate and live on the fringes. Tree kids, for example." Bucky gestures loosely. "Jules. That kid could do any damn thing, but he chooses the trees. That's frustrating for me personally, but on the other hand -- Enhanced eschewing the society that hates them? Building their own? Hell, you know I'm only gonna have sympathy for that. If UFoE's aim is to give kids like that independence, self-reliance, community? They have it from us, no matter their choice. We're not gonna interfere with how they want to live unless they start causing someone harm."

"If you're as prolific an institution as you sound, Buck..."

Bucky looks at him sharply. Steve shuts his mouth. "You don't know a thing about us and you're still starting in with this?"

"I'm trying to understand," Steve says, opening his palms to the ceiling. "You telling me the guy who killed that gas station clerk turned himself over to you willingly?"

Bucky's face flickers into sobriety. "Alright," he admits. "I guess I can't pretend all our methods are transparent."

"So -- you're SHIELD."

Bucky glares. "SHIELD light, at most. _Not SHIELD._ "

Steve finds himself smiling. Bucky's mouth twitches, too -- and just for a second, it feels like it's supposed to. 

"Well," Steve says. "It sounds like you really believe in what you do."

"I -- yeah. Yeah." He looks at Steve sidelong. "I guess I do."

Steve holds his gaze. The vegetables sizzle in the pan. Something electric seems suddenly to burn between them, and Bucky tries to stay neutral, Steve can see, but there's a flicker in his forehead; a twitch in his jaw. 

Steve would be sure he'd imagined it if not for the way he reads Bucky's expression suddenly not as a stonewall, but as an open book. "Sorry," Steve mutters absently, eyes taking it all in. He's not sure why he's sorry, except that he's somehow made Bucky look--

Bucky's teeth sink into his lower lip and start to worry, peeling at the skin. That's familiar, too. "This your fault in some way I don't know about?" he says, tearing his gaze away. He busies his hands, tidying, opening the dishwasher to fill back up.

"No. But I didn't have to--"

Bucky raises his head, and Steve aborts his sentence at once. It hangs in the room unsaid nonetheless: _I didn't have to come back, you know. I didn't have to come to you at all._

The implications of that feel too hard to process. They stare at each other in awful silence. 

"Well," Bucky finally says. "I don't mean to be… I guess I still got this--" he presses his thumb hard into the countertop -- "pressure point when it comes to you. I'm not trying to--" He gestures, lets the apology sing unspoken. 

"Hell," Steve says nervously. "I'm just relieved we're managing this much."

"Guess talking shit to each other is a habit we don't know how to break, huh?"

It's ribbing again, but there's a vulnerability to it, lurking there under the surface of that forced nonchalance. Steve purses his lips, but there's too much ache in him for it to quite become a smile; too much weighing on his chest for him to quite find words. In the end they both turn to watch the vegetables frying in silence, trying to acclimatize to the fact of the other. 

Eventually Bucky shifts to pour the eggs into the skillet, letting it all cook together. As though roused by the smell of food, Burrito comes to snuffle inquisitively at the leg of Steve's jeans.

"Your dog thinks I smell," Steve remarks, holding out a hand for him to sniff instead.

"You do smell," Bucky mutters automatically. Steve does manage to smile this time, even finds it easy. "Listen, I meant what I said at the market. Eat, shower, rest a while. I'll give you some clothes to wear -- they'll probably be a bit tight, but you look like you lost a fight with a tree the way you are." Suddenly, Bucky turns his face full to the floor. There's no mistaking he's avoiding Steve's eye. "I, ah, got some of your old shit lying around. It might take a while to dig out."

Steve blinks in shock. "Oh. Don't worry about that."

Bucky nods. He folds the omelette over; adds some cheese from within the fridge. From where Steve sits, it looks absolutely delicious.

"You're good at this," Steve remarks.

"Better be by now."

"Oh, yeah?" Steve grins, tickled by it. "You famous for your omelettes among your sexual conquests? Sure your name shouldn't be Jack Omelette?"

Bucky looks at him sharply, but there's a smile rolling around under that forced irritation. "You think you're so fucking funny," he snaps, and there's something about the tone of it that sends Steve into spiels of laughter. "I meant that Jack Sways has a job at a diner, you _asshole_."

"No kidding!" he says, recovering himself.

"Keep a cover this long and it has to be convincing. The bastard has a social security number, he pays taxes. Needs a job to go with it."

Steve's hard-pressed to contain his amusement. "You telling me you've been a short-order cook for years?"

"In a way."

Suddenly, he's evasive. Steve hums under his breath. "You getting along with your boss for once?"

"Nah, he's a total dick," Bucky says. But then his mouth quirks, just a slight.

Steve narrows his eyes. "Buck."

"Don't get excited." Bucky looks up, licking at smiling lips. "But I kinda... bought out the place."

Steve waits for the punchline, but it seems there isn't one. "You… _what?_ You bought a _diner_?"

"Open twenty-four hours," he says, suddenly grinning. "Best place for miles, if I say so myself."

"Bucky!"

Bucky waves the attention away. "Look. It made sense. The place was having incredible turnover, but I knew a bunch of Enhanced who would've killed for a job like that. So I bought the owner out, turned the place around. Now I employ people who'd otherwise have a hell of a time breaking into the workforce. It's also great for me; cooking takes my mind off things, kills my downtime. The place has kind of a weird rep now, but that attracts as many people as it deters. Word of mouth, and all that." He shrugs and plates the omelette. "I do okay."

Steve just stares at him as Bucky slides the plate in front of him. He wipes a towel along its rim -- for flourish, or dramatic effect. Steve looks up at him at smiles. 

"Eat," Bucky says, smiling back. He swallows hard, then turns away again. "You look like shit."

Steve watches him, taking the cutlery Bucky hands him. "I look like shit," Steve says slowly. "I smell bad. What else you got?"

Bucky just cleans the kitchen and smiles. He's all broad shoulders and deep lines, eyes more grey than blue thanks to the shade of his shirt, and in a way, Steve barely recognizes him. Bucky looks at Steve not just with conviction, but with authority, and also with _contentment,_ and that's...

"If you wait to eat until that food gets cold," Bucky tells him amiably, "I will kill you."

So Steve tears his eyes away and tucks in instead. The omelette, as predicted, is goddamned delicious. There's something about it that convinces him he's never had a better one in his life and he leans on one arm, looking up at Bucky as he chews. "Fuck," Steve mutters with his mouth still full, and it's the payoff Bucky wanted; he grins at him, just briefly, before he turns his body away like he's been burned.

Steve blinks at him, confused, but watches Bucky move around the kitchen and waits. "So," Bucky says eventually, wiping the frying pan down. "Things on your end. Run it by me again? I wanna make sure I got it right."

"Sure," Steve says. 

"You were in 2018 and then you were… here. No conscious in-between, nothing that might shed some light on what happened to you."

Steve shakes his head. "Seamless. I thought I'd been transported to Russia."

Bucky turns, at that. "Why Russia?" he asks, abrupt.

"Sun was rising. Figured ten hours ahead in October… but of course I was in Brooklyn, right where I left off. I didn't know time had passed, I thought I was just teleported. Seemed reasonable."

Bucky deflates again, nodding. "So you went to -- find answers."

"Yeah. I found 'em. License plates were local, street signs told me I was right where I left. Went to the gas station for a paper, found it closed, guy on the street told me what year it was, and I went from there."

"And that was -- Prospect Park; Promenade."

Steve nods. "Freeganing in Park Slope."

Bucky laughs, suddenly. It's a warm sound, well-earned. "Well, first time for everything, I guess."

"Could've been a lot worse. No one tried to -- what was it? 'Neuter' me?"

"I mean -- yeah. The thing about Enhanced is that they tend to fight back. Most people try to turn a blind eye to them these days lest they get, y'know, frozen in a gas station."

"That a good thing, the ignoring?"

Bucky gives him a tight smile. "Always benefits and detriments to living underground."

There's something behind it; Steve can't parse what Bucky's trying to say. As he gets more comfortable with Bucky, he's starting to realize how much he doesn't know. He settles for watching Bucky move around the kitchen, tidying, his movements fluid and characteristically solemn, and Steve eats slowly, opting to try to read him instead of asking him what's on his mind.

Burrito leaves his vigil by Steve's side and plants himself before his food bowl, pulling Steve from his concentration. He looks at the dispenser as though asking for something, and to Steve's surprise, it abruptly shifts, as though willed to it.

Steve smiles. Burrito scrambles to his feet and digs enthusiastically in. "He can tell time?" Steve asks.

"He thinks he can," Bucky says. "Stay here long enough, you'll see him planted in front of it at any damn time of day, regardless of the last time he was fed. He's a dope at heart. Sometimes he gets lucky."

Steve smiles, then finishes eating with an appreciative sound. Bucky takes his plate with a smile. "Good?"

"Just what I needed. Thank you."

He nods, avoiding his eye. "Shower?"

Suddenly, Steve hesitates. "I… listen. Bucky... I don't have to be here. I don't want you to--"

But Bucky turns to him, slow and compelling, eyes setting on him with stern, steel authority. "Where are you going to go?" he asks, not quite a question.

"I -- don't know. Jules said--"

"You're gonna become a tree boy now? Join park society, freegan for life?"

"I'm saying I could--"

"I have a guest room." It's stubborn and final. So this isn't so much a discussion. "It's empty. I won't force you to stay if you don't want to, but it's not being used. Do you want to stay here?"

"I…"

"Don't fuck around, Rogers. Say yes if you do." 

"Yeah, Buck. I do."

"Then stay. Simple as that."

Steve finds himself helpless to Bucky's severity. "Okay."

Bucky nods, then passes him by and sets down the hall. Steve spins on the barstool, following close until Bucky turns to slide a pocket door to the side. It's a bathroom, surprisingly long and deep, far removed from the clutter of the rest of the place. Shelves line one wall, organized and tidy, like a beacon of order in amidst all the chaos. 

"Towels there," Bucky says, pointing. "Take your pick. I'll find some clothes for when you're done. Spare toothbrushes on the shelf; help yourself. Hot water only runs for about ten minutes at full blast, but I can boot up a workaround if--"

"No," Steve says. "That's fine. I won't be long."

Bucky nods. "There's a display on the wall. You know about interfaces?"

"No."

"Well, that's called an interface. You'll see a lot of them -- portable, ambient, visual, does everything. Play music on it if you want -- just say 'interface,' then whatever you want to listen to. Ignore my music taste if it tries to turn on before you've specified. I'll make you up a bed." Bucky looks him up and down, all business again. Steve can't help but think he's screwed something up, from the way his eyes have turned sharp. "Not to sound like a broken record, but you... look like shit. Take a nap, or whatever. Help yourself to anything." He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen. "I'll be around, but I gotta step out later. If you wake up and I'm not here, don't worry about it. It's planned."

Steve nods, suddenly feeling very much like he doesn't belong. "Okay." 

Bucky seems to feel his unease. He raises an arm as though to set it on his shoulder, but it doesn't quite make it; hovers in the air, before Bucky lets it fall. "Okay," Bucky says back; then, laden with awkwardness, he gives Steve a pursed smile and ducks into the nearest room. "Get clean." 

Then he turns and pushes the door half closed behind him, leaving Steve alone in a place he can't recognize.

  


***

  


The shower offers catharsis Steve hadn't known he'd needed. His shoulders collapse the second the hot water hits him, dissolving into the current as it ropes down his back. He winds up leaning against the wall with both hands, letting it pour over him, reveling in pressure, in sensation -- a comfort, at last. He counts through six searing minutes in his head before forcing himself up to wash, and -- Bucky seems meticulous about his hair. The products on the shelf don't seem cheap, unrecognizable to him though they are. He grabs the shampoo and smiles a little to think that he'll smell like Bucky once his hair's dried, or -- this Bucky, at least.

The new Bucky.

Suddenly, Steve feels more tired than he's ever been.

He manages to get clean just before the water starts to turn cold. He grabs for the nearest towel on the shelf and assesses the bathroom more carefully. It's odd, among Bucky's other habits, to see the towels folded up like this -- meticulous, uniform, a predilection rescued from before the war. Steve imagines him watching a movie, folding laundry, Burrito curled up and snuffling beside him--

His breath sticks in his chest. It's all seemed so easy, but there's so much he doesn't know. The place looks like a bachelor pad, but what if it's not? Steve imagines him alone out of pure, guileless selfishness. He looks to the counter, seeing only one toothbrush, one set of everything; maybe he's thinking too fast.

Steve's ears perk; he turns his head, as though compelled to Bucky's voice. He's talking to someone, mid-conversation; Steve tries to talk himself out of listening, but now that he's heard him, it's hard to turn off.

"...tech's fallible," Bucky's saying. " _I_ tested him, that's what I trust. He holds his fork in the same stupid way. Used to hate chopping onions; still hates it now." A pause; Steve can hear some muffled rumbling in the background. A man's voice, as though on a speaker. He must be on the phone. "Yeah, I know that, smartass. You think that's all I did? He showed knowledge of the site where he disappeared. He's wearing the same clothes as when he left, for God's sake. As far as Burrito is concerned he could be a regular guest here, and you know how he gets. He might be able to fool me, but he can't fool the dog." Another pause. Steve can't make out what the other voice is saying, but it sounds slow and careful. "Oh, stop concern-trolling, are you kidding?" he interjects. "You want me to trust a machine over what's in front of me? He sounds like Steve, he looks like Steve, he says the right fucking things. If he's a trickster, he's a damn good one, Sam, because I can't find any flaws."

Steve hastens to dry himself off, cheeks burning with something unknown and unwelcome. Of course Bucky would be suspicious of him. He'd have to be insane not to be. Eighteen years gone and Steve tracks him like it was nothing? It reads like a bad situation no matter which way you shake it.

The conversation seems to end. Urgency faded, Steve slows his movements. Fatigue weighs leaden, rigid, in his limbs. He hears only stillness, then Bucky seems to start moving around again, digging at something in the wall the two rooms share. 

Steve runs the towel furiously through his hair just in time for Bucky to knock on the door. "Fresh shirt," he says shortly, pushing the door open just far enough to lace an arm through the gap.

Steve can tell from the way he's standing that he's facing away. That's quaint. "Thank you," he says. He takes a second to pull on underwear, at least, and then claims the shirt from him. The style makes it fit a little tight around the collar, but it otherwise fits him fine. "There a good place to put this towel?"

"Just hang it up."

"Yeah?"

"You staying or what?"

"I… guess I am."

Through the crack of the door, Steve sees him gesture impatiently. Steve throws the towel on a hook without further ado and looks at his filthy clothing with distaste. He should probably put on pants, but his stint in the bushes did him no favours. They look much rougher than he'd anticipated.

"How far's the laundromat?" Steve asks.

"In-unit."

"No kidding?"

"Give me whatever you want to wash, I'll throw it in."

Steve pushes the door aside and hands Bucky his ball of clothing, half-stepping into the hall as he does. In the dark of the corridor, half of Bucky's face remains masked, but there's no way to miss he avoids Steve's eye.

"Thank you," Steve says. 

Bucky points around a corner and still doesn't look at him. "Bed's made. Sorry it's so small. It's not built for…" He gestures at Steve.

"That's okay. Thank you for..."

He doesn't finish. Bucky's eyes flit up before he seems to be able to stop them. Even in the dark, Steve sees tension rip through him -- pinched eyes to shoulders, to the base of his spine.

This time, Steve looks away. Bucky wrenches his face away just the same way. "It's no problem," he mutters, and steps toward the bedroom.

Steve reaches out. "Bucky--"

But Bucky's too swift for him; he steps back, wrist pulling gracefully away, barely changing his pace as he does it. He's too used to dodging to even make it look like effort.

Steve's face falls. Realization runs through him. This is how it is, now: Bucky, out of reach. 

But Bucky looks to regret his instincts. He turns slowly back around and forces himself to face Steve direct. "Sorry," he says, swallowing. "It's…"

Steve's mouth shudders open as though to say something, but all he manages to do is force it closed again. "You don't have to," he begins, then gestures. "It's... you're right to be suspicious."

Bucky's features purse with embarrassment and regret. "Thin goddamn fucking bathroom walls," he mutters. "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

"Don't be."

"I'm not -- it's not that I don't--" 

"I get it."

"I don't have an issue here." He gestures at Steve where he's standing there pantsless, like it pains him a little. Suddenly Steve realizes why Bucky was looking away. "I'm going with my instincts on this one. God help me. You seem like you to me. I'm trusting that you are."

Steve's mouth flickers helplessly. "Thank you."

Bucky looks to the ceiling, then back to Steve as he sighs. "Don't prove me wrong, Steve. I really hate that."

"Noted." Steve purses his lips. "So… how did Sam take it?"

Bucky shrugs, like he's disinterested in discussing it. "Not bad. Got quiet, a little weird. Don't be surprised if he barges in here with a bunch of Stark tech and starts taking readings from you in your sleep."

"Would he really?" 

"Always trusted tech more than himself."

"Seems risky."

Something in the look Bucky gives him suggests he has plenty to say about Sam's life choices. "He'd trust my judgment on most things, but… maybe not on this. There's a lot of shit in this world that needs double-checking. It's not out of line to suggest."

"So... you're serious."

"Oh, definitely. He'll be here with bells on. Managed to keep him at bay at least until we meet up later." He slants his gaze to Steve with irony in his eyes. "If you're here to kill me, best do it before then."

Steve offers him a smirk. "I think I'll resist the impulse."

Bucky nods and turns the corner down the hall. "Here." He pushes open a door to a well-lit room. 

It's small, but cozy. There's single bed, a set of drawers, a small desk, an armchair. The biggest thing in the room is a bookshelf: dark, looming, stuffed full with layers of paperbacks. It's a more organized version of the living room, or else an extension of the chaos; a couple of closed guitar cases clutter in the corner behind the armchair. 

"It's small," Bucky says.

"It's plenty," says Steve.

"Try not to open the closet door. There's... kind of a lot of shit in there. I, uh…" He scratches at the back of his neck. "I pulled out the box with whatever's left from when you disappeared. I'll throw your old clothes in with the wash. You'll look out of date, but at least they'll fit."

"Oh." Steve blinks. "Thank you. Is there… much?"

"Some," Bucky says, but he won't look at him; he gestures at the window instead. "Curtains go blackout if you want, but I assume you still sleep like the dead, so…" Bucky seems to end at a loss, and he backs down the hallway, giving a strange nod. "I guess that's everything. Unless you need something else?"

"No," Steve says. God, he hates to see him walk away like Steve is a stranger.

"Okay," Bucky says. "Well… have a good sleep." Then he turns away and ducks into the bedroom, leaving Steve alone with the terrible present.

  



	5. For Every Action There Is a Reaction

  


### November, 1943

Bucky sat bolt upright out of the dead of sleep and looked at Steve, hand on his pistol.

Steve froze. He held Bucky's eye. They sat, the pair of them: lovers made opponents, brought to it by war.

"It's me," Steve said. "It's me and it's you." The others slept on. It wouldn't do to wake them. "Come on, Bucky. You know me. Stand down."

Bucky kept his pointer finger set against the trigger guard. Steve's hand wrapped around his shield at his side, just in case. 

"Think," Steve said. His heart was pounding. "Think about this. You wouldn't have your weapon if they still had you."

Bucky lifted the gun and held it sideways in front of him, as though to see if it was real. He checked its load, then put the gun down again. "You're not the Steve I left."

"No," Steve agreed. "I got bigger. We went over this, remember?"

Bucky just breathed at him, gun held in his lap. Steve had been watching him rest; maybe that's what had woken him. Ever since he pulled Bucky from that Hydra bunker, Steve felt so much more sorrow than he'd known where to put. About the way Bucky slept. About the way he didn't sleep. 

"How do I know you're real?" Bucky muttered. His jaw was so tense the words barely cleared his lips.

Steve held his gaze, those grey eyes lined by circles, and gestured at him to put the gun aside. "We grew up together, you and me," he said, voice calm. "You know me. Think a minute. There was… there was that time you sprained your wrist, remember? I think you were fifteen, and you didn't want anyone to know. You thought you'd broken it. Seeing a doctor was expensive, so you came to my house, and my Ma--"

"But I know that," Bucky said.

Steve nodded, a little relieved. "Yeah. You do."

"Then how do I know…"

He frowned, as though suddenly realizing the flaw in his logic. Steve licked his lips and leaned forward a little. "I guess… you're just gonna have to trust me, Bucky," he said quietly. "You're gonna have to look at me and trust your instincts. Can you do that?"

Bucky stared. Then, slowly, he put the gun on the ground.

Steve sighed hard, breath shaking a little. "Thank you," he said, voice full with relief. "I can see you're not really awake, Buck. Why don't you sleep some more? Close your eyes now, come on. I swear on my life that I'll keep you safe."

A tick in Bucky's jaw; a furrow of his brow. "That's not your job."

"Well too bad, because here I am." 

Bucky didn't seem to like that, but he didn't have much to say. It wasn't until Steve moved his bedroll over and put his hand on Bucky's forehead that Bucky finally laid back and closed his eyes. 

"Time was I used to keep you safe," Bucky muttered. He hooked a finger in Steve's uniform -- more affection than he'd managed since Steve pulled him out. 

"You still do, pal," Steve told him. In the dark of the night, he raised his hand to his hairline, taking a strand between his fingers with affectionate care. "We protect each other, always have. You look out for me in missions and I'll do it the rest of the time, how about that?" 

But Bucky seemed already to be asleep.

  


***

  


Steve wakes up not knowing where he is.

The sun angles against the wall in unfamiliar ways. He can't seem to get his bearings. He sits straight up, taking in the guitars, the books, that ugly, broken chair...

_Bucky's._

He exhales hard and calms his heart.

The apartment is quiet. The window's been cracked open and Steve can hear birds harkening the descent of the sun. He lies there a while, trying to walk back his nerves. There's no security guards here, no one trying to kick him out. He's good here. It's Bucky's. There's nothing here to worry about. There's nothing to--

There's a strange sound from the kitchen. 

Steve kicks his feet over the edge of the bed, ears pricked to the source. Maybe it's the effect of his rude awakening, but he has a bad feeling about this. Leveraging himself swiftly up, he pulls open the door. He creeps wordlessly down the corridor, around the corner, uses the wall for cover…

A snuffling noise.

Steve's shoulders fall hard, breath tumbling out of him in relief. "Burrito?"

As though caught in the act, the dog scrambles out from behind the counter, trotting into view with incriminating innocence.

"What are you doing, pal?"

Burrito just sits in the hallway and looks at him, panting.

Steve purses his lips. Burrito adjusts his stance a little, then goes right on panting. Steve clucks his tongue and passes into the kitchen, testing a hand against his head as he goes. 

The air still smells of carbonara, but the kitchen is spotless. Clean dishes pile to one side of the sink. The only anomaly is a cupboard cracked open by the dishwasher; Steve pries it all the way open to see a garbage can with a lopsided lid pushed awkwardly to the back.

He looks to the dog. "Are you supposed to be eating trash?"

Burrito turns to him hopefully.

"I don't think you are."

Burrito turns away again.

Steve adjusts the garbage can into position, then notices a mislaid childproofing clip sitting on the counter. He sees the other cupboards have them attached, so Steve slides it on and shoots Burrito a scolding look. "Opportunist."

Burrito ignores him, craning his head in the opposite direction. Steve steps forward to peer down the hall. Bucky's bedroom door is open, cast yellow in the afternoon's dying light. Steve bangs around the kitchen to coax Bucky out, but when there's no sign of him, Steve resigns himself to solitude. 

He starts opening cupboards and pantries on instinct, as though looking for something he can't quite name. Eventually, looking down at himself, he finally decides he's looking for pants. That narrows down the search. From then on he opens only cupboards that might be large enough to house a washer and dryer.

Between the kitchen, the bathroom, and the hallway, he comes up short. It's probably not in the spare bedroom, so that leaves...

The door to Bucky's bedroom _is_ open, but Steve feels weird intruding without invitation. He pads back into the living room to find it isn't there, either. He feels like he's missing something more than his pants, like something to do or somewhere to be. 

Bucky's piles of books look both inviting and daunting. There is some kind of clear system -- there are maybe fifteen different stacks of books, all of them different sizes. Some teeter on the desk while others sit on stools, and others still tower up from the floor. Shelves line the room on either side, stuffed full of books nearly from floor to ceiling. Steve decides the stacking on the desk must double as storage and organization both. New shelving has long since been abandoned due to their comparative lack of economy. Alright. That seems like something Bucky would do.

Yet Steve can't shake the feeling like he's looking at something sacred. A single sunbeam slants through the window, yellow and thin, and he can see the dust that hangs between the book stacks. It drifts, careless; if he didn't know better, Steve would think the books have suspended in time. 

He can't bring himself to disturb the space. It's familiar, awfully: a tendency to hoard, and the construction of an informational well. A vigil, in a way. That's Bucky, all right.

Steve blinks himself back to the rest of the apartment and goes to use the bathroom. He basks in the luxury of cold, clean water on his face and stares at himself in the mirror, as though waiting for the dream to disappear from his vision. Then he pours himself a bowl of cereal -- Cheerios, thank God, that's familiar enough -- and eats, holding Burrito's eye, the dog looking resentful all the while.

On his way out of the kitchen again, Steve stoops to let the dog sniff at his hand, then crouches to rub vigorously at his neck when he seems like he'll let him.

"Hi," Steve mutters. "Nice to meet you. I'm Steve. Sorry about the trash before."

Burrito nudges at Steve's hand when he moves to take it away, so Steve pets him some more, eventually sitting on the floor.

Unfortunately it doesn't do a thing to ease the ache in his chest. Steve goes back to the cluttered spare bedroom and stares at the shelves, at these books Bucky's deemed secondary. He searches through them until a title grabs him -- one he's read before, but maybe the occasion warrants it. 

He throws himself into bed with _The Old Man and the Sea_ and falls asleep with it still in his hand.

  


***

  


"Tell me that's not him."

Steve frowns, trying to get a grip on consciousness.

"Christ. Looks like him, all right."

"You gonna put that away or what?"

"I -- I guess I am. If you're that sure."

"I'm sure."

That's Bucky. Just Bucky and Sam, voices pitched a little wrong.

"The _farmer's market_. It's twenty-thirty-fucking-six and he starts playing spy tag with me at the goddamn farmer's market. It's like -- it's like it's--"

"Hey."

"--like that -- like after all those years, he _expected_ \--"

Steve opens his eyes in time with the plummet of his heart. Bucky's voice cracks down to a whisper and Steve turns to it on instinct. Squinting thinly against the dull glare from the hallway, desperate to understand, Steve watches as twin silhouettes merge together. 

Shuffling; some muffled breathing sounds, and Steve's pulse is suddenly hammering in his ears. "I'll go to the site tomorrow," he hears Sam murmur, so soft as to be barely audible. "Run some tests, get some readings, put them through GERTA. See what Stark has to say."

"No," Bucky says. His voice sticks. "No Stark. No GERTA either, at least until--" 

"Oh, come _on._ "

"Steve Rogers crops up in a database somewhere, how quick do you think this door gets kicked down?" Bucky's head rises from where it must have sat resting on Sam's shoulder, but Sam keeps his fingers in his hair, intimate and fond. 

Steve shuts his eyes out of instinct. He's pretty sure he doesn't want to see this. 

"No." Bucky again. "No. Just... let me think about it. Give me some goddamned time to think. Let me get through this thing tomorrow and I can commit time…"

"You shouldn't do this by yourself, Jack."

"I don't see another way."

Sam sighs, openly impatient. "Why not?"

"You really in a position to get pissed about it? Look -- we go to Stark before we have a plan, it's not gonna go well. Not for Steve, not for me. You know I thought he'd never..."

A beat; another sigh from Sam. "You know I can't be involved in that with you."

"Yeah," Bucky says, empty. "I know."

"Not for lack of wanting."

"You don't need to explain."

Steve's hearing strains around the sound of his pulse in his ears, but he finds only silence. He's desperate to know what's going on and terrified of it at the same time.

Amid shifting and sighs, the door's pulled closed.

Gutted, alone, Steve stares into the Brooklyn night.

  


***

  


He wakes again to the calling of birds. 

The sky's awash in a beautiful glow, periwinkle hinting at crystalline blue. Steve stares at it a while before remembering why he feels hollowed through. The room is flushed in an ambient grey, but Steve can see it: Bucky leaning into Sam's open arms, backlit by yellow light.

It sinks in him like hot coal, direct to his gut. He knows this feeling and decides it unwelcome. He kicks his way out of bed before it takes him over and fights to steady his outlook, staring outside.

Bucky hadn't mentioned a relationship with Sam. Steve kind of thinks that's headline news, but he understands why Bucky might want to keep it quiet. He can also see how it might've just slipped his mind. A third option is that he's jumping to conclusions, but... he knows what he saw. Bucky when vulnerable tends to shy away from comfort, except with those he really trusts. It says volumes about how far they've come that he'd be willing to show that to him at all. 

Suddenly, the acid feeling in him resolves. It's not complete, but it's enough: Bucky, after all that, hadn't been alone at all. Steve had left him in a way he couldn't help, and Bucky had done the very thing Steve would've wanted him to do: moved on. He found a way to cultivate something good with someone else.

Relief spills out of him. Steve tilts his face to the ceiling and lets the emotion that's been fighting in him form solid in his throat. 

He'd been an idiot to think it would be as easy as it looked, adjusting. Bucky, a bachelor, was no bachelor at all. He had someone -- he had _Sam._ The feeling in him turns warm. He can adjust to this -- to a world where Bucky already has what Steve wants to give him. And it's from Sam, from _Sam_ , the best man in the world. It's someone who knows Bucky and how he works; it's someone who gets him enough to give and take in the right amounts. It's just Sam. It's Bucky and it's Sam. If there's a juggernaut to adjust to, at least it's this.

Steve rubs his hands over his face and tries to start the day fresh. Being with Bucky's not an option anymore? Fine. Closure. For now, it's enough to have Bucky helping him get on his feet. Now he has a chance to assess the field, parse out his options. 

Pants would be a good start. He moves to leave the room in another search, but at the last minute his eyes catch on something on the desk. It's a shirt, definitely Steve's, and not the one he came in either; jeans, underwear, a shirt with longer sleeves, all surely his. There's a note set on top of it, written in an angular scrawl, long evolved from what Steve remembers--

_Done sharing, I'm drawing a line._

Steve smiles and then grins, shutting his eyes hard against the feeling of affection. He leans with a hand spread wide against the desk. That won't do. He's got to start boxing that shit away again. He swaps Bucky's t-shirt out for his own and wonders if Bucky's learned to write with his right hand, or if he's just created a new style for himself over time. 

He squares his shoulders and opens the door.

In the low glow of the morning, warmth casts through Bucky's apartment. Inexplicably, Steve feels his breath catch in his chest. He imagines Bucky setting himself down in the living room in the mid-morning sun, book hanging open by a cracked spine, other hand carrying coffee...

A snuffling from behind him brings Steve to turn on his heel. Burrito lies with his head over his paws, staring at Steve with bored intent from just within Bucky's bedroom. 

Steve couldn't see him when he passed through the hall, but from this angle, he can: Bucky standing at the other end of the room, one ankle propped over the other, leaning on the thin railing of a brass french balcony. He's holding a cigarette, elbow propped against the rail, squinting into the glow of the morning. Just for a second, he looks just the same as Steve remembers: stern and contemplative, like the world has disappointed him. Like he's looking for answers he just can't see.

Bucky sighs and looks behind him at the dog. Steve jolts at the sudden movement, and before he can figure out how to position himself, Bucky's eyes drag up and find Steve in the hall, his body giving a similar start.

"God, you're quiet," Bucky says. Then he hastens to hide the cigarette from his view, mouth blossoming with the pull of false ignorance.

Steve just raises his eyebrows at him. "Really?"

"Really what?"

Steve's suddenly helpless but to grin at his feet. When he looks up again, Bucky's smiling, too. Promising.

He nods Steve within. Slowly, trying to shake the nerves from his form, Steve steps into the room. "Sleep alright?" Bucky asks.

The room is smaller than Steve expected. Like the rest of the apartment, the decor is rich, dark with warm tones. Wooden furniture lines the walls, while an honest-to-god piece of abstract art hangs above the bed. The bed is neatly made, but the tables on either side of it are haphazardly covered in books and personal devices. Notes peek out of edges and corners in recognizable organized chaos. 

There's a fireplace at the foot of the bed, complete with brick chimney. The abiding impression is one of coziness; like this is not a room one wants to leave.

Steve breathes it all in as he approaches the window. "Yeah," he says. "I think so. Still tired."

"No shock." Bucky takes a drag of his cigarette and then shrugs an apology, splaying the offending hand in the air. "It's just when I'm stressed."

"What can I say about it?"

"A lot," Bucky says dryly, "if memory serves."

"Bygones."

"Sure."

It's a nice view from up here. Steve hadn't noticed coming back from the market, but Bucky lives in a gorgeous part of the city. The street is lined with trees, all shimmering with green. There on the building's sixth floor, their vantage point allows them a view of the roofs of rowhouses, dusted with remnants from a dying winter.

"Heard you with Sam last night," Steve says, before he can stop himself. 

Bucky shifts his weight from one foot to the other, plainly uncomfortable. "Oh."

"I just wanted to -- let you know that I -- I'm glad." He gestures loosely, hand hitting against his leg. He's trying too hard, but he doesn't care. "I'm happy for you, Bucky. I mean it."

"That… Steve. It wasn't what it looked like."

"Well, whatever it is. Always thought the way you two snipe at each other was a little too spirited."

Bucky clenches his jaw and ashes his cigarette. "Me and Sam ended years ago, Steve."

Steve's stomach drops. He isn't sure why. "Oh."

"We had a good run, him and me. But we make better business partners than we did -- you know -- romantic ones. We imploded pretty hard a while ago, built a friendship back up." He looks at his cigarette instead of at Steve. "It took a long time, but now we're here."

"It just looked like--"

"Yeah. I -- yeah, it would. Sorry to…" He gestures, as though lacking the words. "Sam and me, we're idiots, but that's all. There's no chance we'll do it again, but we still lean into it in times of trouble. We don't learn. That doesn't mean there's anything… still there." Finally, Bucky looks at him. A far cry from awkward, he looks more concerned. "It's been a long time since we were more than friends, Steve. No matter what our dumb asses made it look like." 

Steve finds he has to lean against the railing. "I… okay. How long were you… together?"

"Six years, give or take. Maybe give. Feels like ages ago. We ended things seven years back. It's been longer than it was." Bucky sighs and takes another hard drag of his cigarette. "I'm sorry you keep overhearing shit like this, Steve. I wanted to tell you. I put the words together a dozen times, but they never actually... made it to my mouth."

"It's fine. It's…" He exhales. "It's eighteen years, Buck. You don't owe me a thing."

Bucky's posture adjusts, then they're both leaning over the city the same way. A silence falls -- understanding, companionable, muted by apprehension.

"I'm not doing a very good job of this," Bucky mutters. He takes another drag of his cigarette, as though to burn through his regret.

"I don't think I am either."

" _You're_ supposed to be thrown. I've had years to practice. Guess it all just kinda... falls flat, in the actual face of you."

Tension draws between them, then grows firm.

"I think you're doing better than you think," Steve says.

Bucky takes a deep breath and exhales gradually. Steve lets himself watch this time when he brings the cigarette back to his lips. He gets lost in the lines around Bucky's eyes as he squints against the morning sun. His cheeks, concave around the cigarette, stay a little gaunt once it's withdrawn. 

"You're hard to shake," Bucky says, quiet.

There's feeling behind it that hits Steve hard. "I…" His mouth's dry. "I'm not trying to be."

Bucky smiles, good and broad. It looks about as rare as it used to be. "Yeah, I'm sure. You just parade around my house without pants on to blend in."

Steve's surprised enough by it to laugh. "They had mud--"

"I'm just messing with you, Rogers."

"I'm trying to say I don't want to cause you stress." He gestures to Bucky's cigarette.

Bucky examines it where it sits between his fingers. "Well, no offense to you or your ego, but I actually have something else on today. You're not the peak source of my stress right now."

"Oh. Well… that's good."

"Yeah. Actually, you can lend me hand. You want to do me a favour while I'm out?"

"Yeah," Steve says, straightening. "Bucky, anything."

"Think you could take Burrito out for a walk?" 

Steve brightens immediately. Bucky smiles at him. "Yeah, I figured you'd made friends already. He needs about a solid hour of exercise before he stops sighing like that. I'm just not gonna have time today. I can call someone in to walk him..."

"No, I'll do it. I'd be happy to."

"Thanks."

"I mean, if I can't pay rent, right? You got some shoes for me to shine while I'm at it?"

Bucky smirks around his cigarette. "Yeah," he grinds out. "It's just a favour. But thanks."

Steve sighs and leans against the railing again. "You're doing me just as much of one. Should I -- hell, Bucky, should I go back to the site where I appeared and try to amass some intel while I'm at it? I hate the idea of leaving this to--"

" _No._ In fact, very much do not do that. UFoE will handle it. Once this mission is done you'll have my full attention and then we can parse out the options."

"Handle -- options? What kind of options?"

"That's what we don't know yet. Unfortunately, there's a lot we don't know. We'll make guesstimations at best." Bucky glances behind him, toward the living room. Steve follows his gaze but can't tell what he was looking at. "We'll decide by committee how to handle -- this, how to handle the fact that you're back, and you'll _be there_ ," Bucky says, placating, gesturing at him as though to tamp down his objection. "But the way these things work tends to rely on fairly significant offsets in physics. We need to figure out what kind of risk/reward relationship we're looking at here in terms of what's required to send you back."

Steve perks up. "Back… to 2018?"

"Don't get your hopes up. Our knowledge base is not strong. We didn't know what happened when you disappeared, except that there would probably, at some point, be a reaction. We didn't know it would take the form of--" Bucky gestures at him -- "Steve-actual."

"But you knew it _could_ be."

Bucky doesn't say anything for a long time. He just leans out over the railing; stares into the morning, as though Steve wasn't there. "I hoped," he finally says. 

Then he ashes his cigarette and reverts to silence.

Steve leans beside him, trying to get his feelings in line. "So… you're _not_ with Sam."

Bucky sighs, slow and heavy. Steve looks over to see him fighting a smile. "No. I'm not with Sam."

"Are you with anyone?"

"I am currently single." But a tense beat later, Bucky glares at him sidelong. "Don't look so fucking happy about it."

Steve holds his hands out in front of him. "I'm just asking questions."

"I _like_ being single."

"Is that right?"

"Meeting people, sex and flirting… Didn't I like to date before the war?"

"Yeah, _before_ the war. After the war you seemed kinda done with people." 

Bucky looks at him, the sides of his mouth pinching thin. "You seem to have this idea in your head that the broken person you left is the person I'm meant to be."

Steve's smile fades, gradual. "I -- don't know about that, Buck. I don't know... if I really saw you as all that different."

Bucky looks at Steve serious, scrutinous. "No," he mutters. "I guess you didn't. But you really don't know enough about me now--"

"That's never stopped me before."

The words came fast, pouring out of his mouth before he could think them through. Bucky takes them with a grim, put-upon smile. He takes the last drag off his cigarette and looks at him sidelong, and Steve feels dread grow solid in his gut. 

"I hate that I actually have to say this out loud," Bucky tells him. "But you and me have been broken up a long time, Steve."

Steve starts to say he knows, but emotion cuts the sound off in his throat. 

"It doesn't reverse just because you showed up out of nowhere," Bucky says. "Not for me. I'm sorry."

Steve smiles sadly and looks to his feet, forcing a slow inhale to keep his lungs from growing tight. "I--" It cuts off when emotion strangles him after all. "God," he whispers.

"You might be hard for me to shake, but it doesn't mean I haven't moved on." Bucky butts his cigarette out against the railing and looks down over the side, foot fidgeting humbly. "Don't push," he says, quiet. "I know it's hard, but you had to have known it couldn't be."

"I -- I did." Steve nods, swallowing hard. "I psyched myself up to accept it and everything, and then…" He forces a steadying breath. "I guess in the span of three days, it just… sucks. It sucks to hear."

Bucky looks at him, intense and sincere. "I'm sorry," he says. He sounds like he means it.

"I am, too."

A gentle breeze glances over their faces while they stand united in silence.

"Friends?" Steve mutters after a while.

Bucky smiles over the city. "Think you're stuck with me on that one."

"I can handle that."

As a gust of wind pushes into the room, Bucky peers suddenly around the building's corner. It takes Steve a minute to hear what Bucky heard, but then -- bass pounding from down the street, barely audible over the sound of traffic. 

"Mm," Bucky says. "That'll be Natasha."

Steve frowns. "Will... it?"

Bucky smiles thinly and flicks the butt of his cigarette out over the street. "She's pretty much the same. So far as I can see, anyway. Imagine if the essence of Natasha Romanov was funneled into a high-powered international affairs diplomat." Steve steeples his eyebrows. Bucky nods at his skepticism. "I use the word 'diplomat' loosely. She spends a lot of time in Russia, does a ton of liaising for us and also for -- others." He waves a hand. "I don't ask that many questions. She's a powerhouse in a lot of senses."

"Is this gonna be a Steve-surprise situation?"

"Nah, I texted her last night. All she said was, 'huh,' then sent three ghost emojis, then a screaming one."

Steve finds it in him to laugh. "Same old, then."

"Like I said." The pounding bassline's grown louder, now, a pending beacon of her arrival. A car pulls up beside the curb with screeching precision and Bucky smiles warmly, peeling himself from the window. 

The bass cuts out in time with the car's engine. "Do me a favour," Bucky says, pulling open a drawer and spritzing the air. "Don't tell Romanov I have real cigarettes. She'll case me from them and I don't want to share. They're rare enough as it is."

Steve lingers at the window a second; takes in the square of Natasha's shoulders, the cut of her suit as she steps out of the car and strides toward the door. At the last possible second, Natasha glances up in his direction and gives a quirk of her head, and Steve turns away as though burned, blinking hard. 

"So _she's_ responsible for your descent into vice," Steve says.

"Yeah," Bucky deadpans. "Definitely her, and not you."

"I," Steve says sincerely, "have never smoked a day in my life."

" _You_ are the sole reason I was committing felonies in 1935. You don't have a leg to stand on." Bucky stoops to scratch between Burrito's ears, and then finally stands straight, reaching the panel by the door at the same time that it buzzes. 

Bucky holds a button to let her in. He moves like a man set in his rhythms, reading the moments of his day as though he divined every one. He flashes Steve a tight smile, inexplicably nervous, and then opens the door and steps out of Steve's sight. 

He could get a better angle if he'd only step closer, but he feels like he's intruding. It's not worse than was tracking Bucky in the market, but the anticipation of waiting for Natasha's scrutiny is still eating at him. 

Has everyone thrived without him? It's been eighteen years and there's a lot of room for being forgotten. Bucky sometimes thinks of Steve, he knows that now, but he wonders if the others do. In a way, they barely knew him. He can't decide if it's better to consider that they might never think of him, or that they often do.

Bucky mutters something in the hall. Suddenly there's an arm wrapping around his neck and he's hugging her tight, fond lips at her temple. Steve can't see her face but it's like they haven't seen each other in months. Maybe they haven't. Steve doesn't know a thing.

He looks to the floor as Natasha steps into the apartment. She's talking rapidly in Russian, her voice driven down another rasping notch by the passing years. He doesn't bother even trying to keep up with their conversation. He's not sure he could hear anything anyway, past the pounding in his ears. 

When he raises his head again he sees Natasha looking at him -- _Natasha,_ her hair a deep and shimmering brown, showing thin strands of grey around her roots, the whole works pulled away from her face with a few strands falling loose around her face. There are lines at her eyes and around her mouth, but she, like Bucky, only barely looks her age. Steve thinks she might look it if her hair was left grey, but he's sure the concealment's an intentional choice.

She offers him a smile, something unreadable. He smiles back; shoves his hands in his pockets, opting for humility. His pulse won't calm down. It feels like he hasn't seen Natasha in months and it's making him nervous.

Her attention returns to Bucky. Her expression opts sincere again, leaves her nodding. "Yeah," she says in English, replying to Bucky while looking a little sorry.

"Well," says Bucky. "How Russian will I have to be, exactly?"

"Very."

"Damn." He rakes fingers through his hair. He says a brief phrase in Russian, then repeats it with an incline. Natasha shakes her head and says it, too, emphasis slightly displaced.

Bucky repeats it. "Got it," he says. Then he turns to Steve, apologetic. "Sorry. Classified..." 

"It's fine, but… wouldn't a decoy know Russian anyway?"

Natasha laughs, sudden. It's open; a relief. "Sorry," she says. "Just been a long time since I've heard that voice." She steps around Bucky, and Steve sees for the first time she's got her fist clenched around something -- he straightens a little, putting up guard. She stops just short of him and Steve stands deathly still; cocks his head to the side when her free hand reaches up to drag a single nail in a long, shiver-inducing stroke along his neck.

"Why does everyone do that?" he asks, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably as she pulls away.

"Long story," Natasha says. She seems... fond. "I want to ask you for a favour. You don't have to do it."

"Favours for everyone," Steve mutters.

Natasha's eyebrows cant up. She turns to look at Bucky, slow and provocative, but Bucky's already shaking his head with a thin mouth. "Shut the fuck up," he says to her.

"I didn't say anything," says Natasha, sickly sweet.

"Nothing you're _about_ to say--"

"Favours?"

Bucky makes a disgruntled sound. "Russia deserves you."

Natasha turns back to Steve, who has completely lost track of the appropriate thing to do with his face. "I'm walking his dog," Steve says flatly.

"I'll bet you are!" Natasha says.

Steve looks at Bucky. "Everyone else know we're broken up, too?"

He doesn't care how petty he sounds. It has the desired result. Natasha's mirth flickers off her face as she looks to Bucky, and then back at Steve. "Sorry," she says, gently adjusting his collar. It seems affectionate on the face of it, but Steve feels the way her fingernail brushes at his skin with a little too much intention. "Someone had to pick up the slack when it came to roasting Barnes while you were gone. I get carried away."

"Happens to the best of us," he says, though he removes her hand from his person. She meets his eye, lacking scrutiny in no small part, but Steve's too glad to see her not to give her wrist a gentle squeeze before letting go. "What's your favour?"

She holds up the device in her hand. "You know about the tech stuff?"

"I know about the tech stuff."

"Okay. This is internal to Stark servers. It's an iris and face scan. It'll confirm your identity and check for evidence of deception -- implants, masks, surgical scars, that kind of thing."

"Is that why everyone's trying to pull my face off all the time?"

"You'd be surprised how often people step away when you try."

"Not sure about that," Steve says flatly. "It feels pretty intrusive."

"And yet you let me." Natasha flashes a smile. "You don't have to. It's a risk. Stark's servers get hacked and they find that Steve Rogers' identity registered in the system at some point after 2018, it's gonna put the both of you at risk." She points backward at Bucky.

"I put myself in enough danger," Bucky says. "Worry about yourself."

"Would you do it?" Steve asks him.

Bucky holds his eye a long time, motionless, like he's trying to figure out how to answer. "If… the right person asked," he says eventually, like he regrets it. "Yeah."

"Fine," Steve says. "Do your worst."

"You don't have to," Natasha repeats.

"You're still concerned I'm not who I say I am," Steve says shortly. "Right?"

"It's not paranoia if there's someone after you."

"No argument," Steve says. "I'm saying let's put the uncertainty to rest." He spreads his arms. "Do whatever you want. I'll incur the risk."

Natasha clucks her tongue. "Sounds like Steve," Natasha muses, holding the device up at eye-level. Behind her, Bucky rolls his eyes. "Try not to blink. Just relax."

Steve waits. A jet of light splashes forth, threatening to blind him. He blinks hard once, then holds his eyes wide open as instructed. The light scans down, follows the line of his face on down to his neck, and Steve tries to blink the stars out of his eyes as it makes his way on.

Natasha smiles a little, then checks the device. Bucky's studying him like he's not sure what he's looking at. Steve wonders what he saw. "Seems like the genuine article to me," Natasha says; then smile growing, she steps forward and snakes an arm around Steve's neck in an unmistakeable embrace.

Steve is -- stunned. His breath stops and starts as he steps forward and takes her whole into her arms. He hadn't realized how much he'd needed a hug; he breathes his relief, nose set behind her ear, smells a hint of rosemary and a little underlying spice. "Jesus," Steve mutters. "Thank you. Feels like I haven't seen you in ages."

"Well," she says, mouth quirking, "I know what you mean. What... _happened_ , Steve? Do you remember?"

Steve shakes his head, shrugging. "I grabbed that kid in the warehouse and the next thing I knew, it was Friday. Eighteen years passed literally in the blink of an eye."

Natasha nods thoughtfully, setting the device on the table. "Scan tells us you're intact. No atomic decay…"

Steve's eyebrows fly up. "Was that -- likely?"

"Not more likely than anything else." She flashes him another smile, then turns to Bucky. "I'll tell Tony before you go in."

"Don't," Bucky says at once. "Not yet. I need time."

"Time -- to what? Figure out just how bad you want to annoy him by denying him this information?"

"Sam and I discussed it. It's not smart to bring him in until we have a plan."

She seems to give him that. "I feel like that's gonna take a while. We don't exactly have mission parameters for the situation where Steve shows up eighteen years later like nothing happened."

"I don't need mission parameters to feel out a situation," Bucky says choppily.

"Oh. Are you saying that you usually trust your gut and find out it's right?" 

"I mean, yeah, that's kind of--"

She cranes her neck and leers at him, smiling. "Do you feel better about today now?"

Bucky opens his mouth, then closes it, frowning a little. "Yeah," he says slowly. "Romanoff, actually, I do."

"You're welcome."

"Christ." Bucky scratches at the back of his head. "Well, guess I missed you after all."

"Missed you too, or whatever. You got something to eat?"

"Help yourself," Bucky says distractedly; but he's looking at Steve, still strangely, frowning like he's trying to figure him out. Steve's not sure he likes not knowing why.

Natasha gives Steve a final, friendly quirk of the mouth, then steps out of her heels, leaving them on the floor in front of him. She looks at Bucky as she goes, then starts chatting in Russian, apparently satisfied that Steve isn't going to intercept her meaning. Bucky responds, also in Russian, staring at Steve all the while; then he manages to tear his gaze away, looking to watch Natasha pull open the fridge. 

Steve's not sure what to do with himself. He feels a little removed, watching all this happen -- watching Bucky and Natasha plan for a mission, intentionally excluding him. Part of him doesn't like it, though he hates that he feels that way. He wants to offer to help, but he knows better; he isn't sure he could take Bucky's look of pity when he declines.

Natasha grabs a container out of the fridge. She watches Steve as she spoons pasta into a bowl, staring at Steve, like she's trying to make sense of his presence in the room. Steve watches her lips move around words he doesn't understand, then moves his gaze away, trying to kill the noise in his head. 

There's a lull in the conversation. Steve's looking at the floor while they're looking at him.

"I'm not gonna bother to offer to help," Steve rasps finally, anxiety crushing him into it.

Bucky smiles a bit. It's mostly unreadable, but it's still about as bad as Steve expected. "Yeah," Bucky says. "We've got it. Thanks."

Another silence, hanging, harsh. Steve's imposing, he can tell that much. "Then I'll leave you to it. Good to see you, Natasha." He pushes himself out of the doorway.

"Steve."

Bucky's voice. Steve steps back, hand on the wall.

"You, uh…" Bucky sighs at the floor, then raises his head with something subdued. "Leash for the dog is there by the door," he says quietly. Steve has the strange impression he meant to say something else, but this is what he gets. "Bags are attached. Burrito knows his favourite places, but -- you gotta keep a low profile." His gaze narrows, like he expects Steve to argue. "I mean it. People know Burrito, so they might ask you who you are. So far as they're concerned, you're just the dog walker. Got it?"

"Got it."

"I get UFoE students to walk him all the time. You're -- young enough to be one, damn you, so it'll track. Your name's sure as shit not Steve, though."

Steve pulls a face. "Grant?"

"Graham at worst. Don't you dare say Roger or so help me..."

Steve barely kills his smile in time; paints over it with innocence.

"God, you're abysmal with cover," Bucky says.

"Never exactly needed one beyond 'Captain'."

Natasha's lip quirks. "That's adorable. Forgot about that."

"Wear gloves," Bucky says. "Be vigilant about this. Fingerprints track everywhere now. We'll work on getting you decoys but in the meantime there's a pair of gloves by the door, too. They'll fit you."

"Decoy -- fingerprints?"

Bucky waves his fingers in the air as though to denote that he has them.

"But it's spring," Steve objects.

"Lots of people wear gloves now," Bucky says. "Eyes, obviously, are the other thing. Cameras everywhere. They don't pick up much unless someone's looking right at them, but better to be safe than sorry. Take that pair of glasses by the door, I won't need them. They distill light a little funny so it takes getting used to, but once your eyes adjust it's just seeing the world a little pinkish."

"Rose-coloured glasses?" Steve mutters.

"That's what disrupts iris scanners. And you'd better wear a hat -- wouldn't hurt to grow a beard. If you could get on that…"

"Yeah, sure," Steve deadpans. "You want me to grow six inches while I'm at it? I hear serums are in vogue this year." 

Bucky smiles, rueful. Steve can't quite figure out whatever's sitting at the edges of it. "Just keep your head down whenever possible. I mean it. I assume you know how to do that much."

"I'll do my best, Buck."

Natasha glances at Bucky. "Was he always this tragic?" she asks through a full mouth.

"He made it in the wild two days without capture." 

"He had the element of surprise. Someone's gonna figure out he's here eventually."

Steve gestures at himself, as though to remind them he's right here. "I have managed to survive a couple wars, you know. Not to mention 65 years in the ice, plus… whatever just happened to me. I think I'll be fine."

But Bucky and Natasha only frown at him. Steve blinks back until Bucky peers past him at the dog. "You gonna look out for Steve while I'm gone?" he asks him. "Earn your keep for once?"

Burrito only sighs where he's still lying on the bedroom floor.

"Yeah," Bucky mutters, glancing at Steve through the length of his eyelashes. "Hope so."

Then he nods Steve down the hall and turns back to Natasha with a comment in Russian, and Steve knows it's time to go.

  


***

  


They bang around the apartment for another hour, speaking at times so passionately as to offer even Steve a couple of identifiable words. Bucky talks about bubliki, and then tactics, like he's switching between the mission and catching up. 

Bucky's usual acidic baritone seems to return more readily when he's speaking with Natasha, and Steve smiles to hear it from where he's lain himself on the guest room floor. He's hopeless to it. He listens to Bucky at length, at the way Russian unspools from deep in his chest, at the way something in his tone suggests he's telling a story about something that recently pissed him off. Steve's eventually proven right: Natasha bursts suddenly into laughter and Bucky finishes his sentence while chuckling deep in his chest, yet sounding still annoyed. It's a sound bourne fundamentally of joy and leaves Steve's heart pounding at his ribs. 

He wishes he was part of it, or maybe away from it. Suddenly, he _aches_. He wants Bucky, or misses him. He wants those curtains of hair, that scowl, that spice of deodorant. Steve shuts his eyes and wills away the ball in his throat and just listens to him, to the pair of them, and the way they've become companions in this life in a way Steve can never match.

It might be a miracle beyond imagining that he's found them all alive and -- apparently -- healthy, but it doesn't change that Bucky, _his_ Bucky, is lost to him now. In a way, all of them are. 

Some feeling sets into him -- the one he's been barely outpacing since he found out the year. 

Slowly, Steve sinks. 

Natasha is wizened and cavalier in a way he can't fathom. Sam remains mysterious, removed. He can't shake the idea that Sam's avoiding Steve entirely, staying gone for a reason. 

That said, he's only been around for less than a day. 

Steve's never exactly been great with being patient.

He tunes back in to find it quiet. He wonders if they left, but hears Bucky activate an interface by vocal command a moment later. Some sort of electropop blares from the speakers. Steve's endeared by it; he's brought to life again. He wonders if Bucky might sing along, now that he's apparently such a _musician_ , but there's nothing for a long time until he hears Bucky muttering the same phrases in Russian, over and over, seeming to ask himself a question; seeming to be trying to perfect the affect of it.

And _this_ \-- is familiar. It's domestic; a little intimate. Bucky falls silent every once in a while, like he's remembered it's not just him and the dog here anymore. Steve imagines him looking at himself in the mirror and smiling: a little bold, a little humble. Maybe the way he had when he'd been talking about his music.

Steve's heart pounds to think of it. Seems he's a sucker for Bucky no matter the year.

The music shuts off. Bucky sets something down, closes a drawer; then he's shambling around again, still muttering to himself. Maybe now he's talking to the dog. Steve shuts his eyes and just listens: takes its familiarity, files it away in the heart of him. 

Maybe he drifts off, because he starts to sudden awareness when the door taps open. "Steve." 

Steve cocks his head to look at Bucky upside-down, but finds he has to sit up to get a better look. 

Bucky has gone full Russian sportif, wearing a matching blue tracksuit and DY sneakers. All the softness from the morning's been waxed out of him; now he's built of angles. His hair's been slicked back into something awful, almost like the '30s except for the hard-tipped tails at the back.

"Oh my God," Steve says before he can help himself. 

Bucky rolls his eyes and turns his head away. Steve suddenly sees the vape pen sitting behind his ear. "Believe me," Bucky says, "it's worse from here." From the smell of him Steve thinks he might be chewing nicotine gum. "What are you doing on the floor?"

"Floor's... nice."

"Right." Bucky frowns as though perplexed. "Well, I'm headed out. I wanted to tell you the spare key's hanging by the door; says SPARE on it, hard to miss. I should be back sometime after dark, but don't get alarmed if it's a little closer to sunrise. If it gets to be proper morning and I'm still not here, get in touch with Sam. He'll know what to do if something's gone sideways. Contact info's on the fridge."

So Sam's still next of kin. That's interesting. "Is it -- uh -- likely?" Steve asks. "That you won't come home?" 

Bucky chews on his lip a second. "Not sure." It's quiet; honest. "There's some element to this thing that…" But then he shakes his head. "No reason it should be higher risk than usual. Just got a bad feeling."

"Well… trust your gut."

Bucky knocks idly on the doorframe, as though for good luck. "Always do." He returns Steve's smile. "There's tons of food. Help yourself -- I mean it. You ate cereal for dinner; eat better for breakfast. Don't hold back out of some misguided attempt at politeness, you and me both know better."

Steve smiles, despite himself. "Okay."

"Books everywhere, obviously -- read whatever, just try to remember where you found it. Watch TV if you want -- say 'television' and then the network or program you want, the interface will respond. Food Network still exists." He throws a loose hand, like he doesn't know what to do with the fact that he knows what Steve likes. "Use the interface by the lightswitch for listings if you want but, uh, try to use your knuckle instead of your finger so it doesn't try to lock you out or, you know, alert unsavoury elements to the fact you're around."

"Right."

"Food for the dog dispenses automatically, but there's treats under the sink. Try not to leave the cupboards open; he gets into them when I'm not around. And sometimes he gets funny if he's left alone at night, so don't feel weird if he follows you around. He likes you, so..." Bucky gestures at him, eyes falling on him for a long, heavy second; then he walks abruptly away.

Steve's not sure if he should follow. "...Buck?" 

But Bucky's already coming back. He tosses Steve a hat. It hits him in the face. 

"Still using baseball caps for cover in the 2030s, huh?" Steve deadpans, picking it up.

"We actually had to stop through most of the '20s, but they're coming back." Steve can't tell if the tone is sarcastic or not. "Wear it. I mean it. There's laws against facial recognition protocols in information kiosks and advertisements, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. You get seen once, twice, fine. You get seen everywhere, they'll track your movements. You don't want that."

"Who's 'they'?"

Bucky rolls an elabourate hand in the air, but decides he's not getting anywhere on a prompt explanation and waves him away. "They, them. You know. Wear the hat." He points to the front door. "Wear the shades. And get off the floor, would you?" Bucky ducks his way out of the room with a sense of finality, not bothering to look back. "You're covered in dog hair."

"That's the definition of happiness, Buck."

"Suddenly I'm glad I never let you get a dog twenty years ago," Bucky says, barely audible; then there's the ruffle of Burrito's collar, the sound of the front door opening and closing, and finally -- silence, descended again.

  



	6. From Tralfamadore, With Love

  


Abandoned to solitude, Steve takes his time in shuffling into the kitchen.

He feels awful, until he finds coffee's been brewed. Then he feels slightly less awful. He opens the fridge to find everything from pasta to roast chicken to a half-eaten chocolate cake within. For some reason, only the chicken appeals to him. He takes out the whole carcass and starts pulling it apart with his hands, surprising himself with hunger.

Burrito watches him from the floor.

Steve stares back. "What?" he finally says, hands covered in grease.

Burrito inches forward, chops smacking hopefully.

"Are you allowed to have chicken?"

Burrito's tail wags. Steve sighs and peels off a sizeable strip from the carcass, tossing it in the air. "You're gonna get me in trouble."

Burrito catches the chicken handily in his jaws. Steve watches him a while, smiling. Then he washes his hands and puts the chicken away, stooping to rub at Burrito's collar. He's glad for _his_ company, anyway.

Steve glances into the living room at the endless piles of books and decides he's gonna go stir crazy surrounded by those things if he doesn't get out. In ten minutes he's dressed and amassed the equipment he needs just to leave the house. All that's left is to remember his cover. 

He looks at himself in the mirror. Between the hat and the glasses, he looks ridiculous. 

"Graham," he says. "Hi, I'm Graham. I'm Graham Rr-rrrogers. Goddamnit. Hi, I'm Graham R… rrrrrogers." He bows his head. "I _am_ hopeless at this."

"Brf," says Burrito.

"Yeah," Steve tells him. "Believe me, I've heard it already." He looks at the mirror anew. "Hi, I'm Grant. I'm _Graham_ \--"

Burrito looks at him with sympathetic eyebrows. 

"Go on," Steve finally says, and ushers him to the door. "May as well get moving." He'll have to hope he'll be better at this if he actually gets stopped in public.

  


***

  


In hindsight, Steve's mistake was probably in trying to retrace his steps to the Promenade. Yesterday, once he'd found Bucky at the farmer's market, he'd sort of trusted him to lead Steve wherever he needed to be. That means that today, once he's out on the street, he's not totally sure at first where he is. He stops in the middle of the road and takes note of the building number, then sets off in some random direction trying to find the cross-street. He finds familiar landmarks quickly enough, and from there he heads north, Burrito trotting happily alongside. 

The Promenade enters his mind as the only place he wants to go. After all, it's one of the only things he knows is still there. Heartened by the cover offered by Court St.'s commercial buzz, Steve waits for Burrito to complete his explorations of curbs and crevasses without much fear of standing out. He's just a guy, walking a dog. In a lot of ways, this has been the life he's been chasing for years. 

It's easy from there to hang a left and find himself on the Promenade again. He admits to himself that he's drawn to it just because he found Bucky there. Familiarity by proxy, or a good association at least. Steve takes his time in strolling down, comforted by it; he lets Burrito sniff his way along and stops to take in the sights, however ominous and luminescent they seem to him now.

"Burrito?" 

Steve turns toward the unfamiliar voice. "Ah," he says dumbly, then re-pitches his voice in the hopes of sounding younger. He doesn't recognize this woman, but there's something about her that seems oddly sinister. As though to confirm his instincts, Burrito tenses beside him. Steve wraps his fingers in control at his collar and smiles. "Guess people know him anywhere, huh?"

It's hard to keep his face inviting, especially when Burrito growls low in his throat. The woman is unusually tall -- taller than Steve, albeit with the help of heeled boots. The sleek of her hair and the glint in her eye makes her look unusually severe and powerful. She attracts attention and holds it; people turn on the Promenade to watch her pass.

"Always," the woman says. She smiles back at him, razor-sharp. It takes Steve all he has not to narrow his eyes. A French flair sparks in her throat. It's tempting to switch languages to see if he can get a different read on her when he does, but it'd put him at a disadvantage. "We see him here all the time. This dog is cared for by so many."

Steve's grateful they made it to the pier. The place is packed. People, countless tourists, mill around them. The woman doesn't seem to notice them; she holds Steve's eye as though compelled to do it. 

It unnerves him deeply. Still, he hitches on an affable grin. She's a striking woman. A less suspicious version of himself might find her peculiarly attractive. "Yeah," he says, putting a little shyness into it. "God knows we love the big guy. Regular fixture in our classes. There's a list of us who want to walk him when the instructor can't, you know?"

"Classes?" The woman stoops, as though to confer with the dog, but her eyes stay on Steve. Through the collar, Steve feels Burrito vocalize low in his throat. "I was not aware this dog was so learned."

Steve shrugs, puts some humour behind it. "Education for all, am I right?"

Finally, the woman blinks her gaze away and looks right at Burrito. Steve feels suddenly concerned there might be something she can do to convince Burrito to turn on him. But if she has powers, they don't seem to affect him; Burrito only stands his ground, growl growing in his throat.

"Hey, pal," Steve says affably, tugging him gently back. "It's alright. Hey, I'm sorry," he says to the woman. "I've never seen him like this before."

She seems unconcerned, waving a hand as she looks up at Steve again. "What kind of classes does he attend? I've never heard of such a thing."

She's taking the joke awfully seriously. Steve pauses just for as long as it takes to decide to roll with it. "Art classes, mostly. He's a whiz. Great eye for the abstract."

"That is odd, is it not? Others who walk him tell me his owner runs a diner."

This time, he lets the silence grow long. Steve's being so openly interrogated that it borders on offensive. "I wouldn't know anything about that, ma'am," he says, nodding politely. "But I do know he seems worked up for some reason, so I think I'd better take him home. You take care now."

The woman reaches out and grabs him with reflexes far beyond what she should be capable of. Steve's eyes land on her hand where it clings at his arm.

"Tell me about yourself," she says. "I'm not in the habit of letting strapping young men such as yourself escape before they've at least introduced--"

"He-ey!"

The voice comes from beside him, Steve cants his eyes to the side only slowly, following the woman's lead. There, grinning wide -- God bless him -- is Sam Wilson, reaching a hand out for Steve to shake.

"Oh, _hey_!" Steve says. It's not hard to sound happy to see him. "S -- ah -- God, I feel like I haven't seen you in _ages_."

Sam throws an arm over Steve's shoulders, giving him a moment to blink through his shock. Sam, unlike the others, has gone completely grey; lines sculpt around his mouth and his eyes as though sketching the years with every smile. Still, it's _Sam_ , and by some divine miracle he seems happy to see Steve. Steve can't help but lean into the hug a little hard, as though trying to root something out of it that might remind him of home.

"Follow my lead," Sam whispers in his ear as he pulls away.

Steve finds he has to paste his smile back on again. It was probably wishful thinking to believe the greeting would come without strings. "Listen -- how are you?" Sam asks. He hits Steve's arm with the back of his hand. "You keeping up with your studies?"

"You know it," Steve says. He has no idea how Sam intuited his cover. Maybe Bucky'd mentioned he was supposed to be covering as a student. "Taking a break, walking the dog, you know."

"Hey, buddy!" Sam stoops to give the dog a proper greeting. Burrito cheerfully licks Sam's face in a way that seems to annoy Sam to no end. He straightens again, wiping his own face with the back of his hand and forcing a smile to the woman before them. "Hey."

"Hi," she says. She sounds disappointed. Steve has the impression they've run into each other before. "Old friends, I assume?"

"Yeah, I haven't seen this kid in a dog's age." Sam sets his hand on Steve's shoulder, then turns to the woman, mouth craning into a smile's facsimile. It's joyless, a thinly veiled threat. "He and I should catch up. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all." The woman's smile is as cold as Sam's, and the frigidity doesn't leave when she turns her striking gaze back to Steve. "It was lovely to meet you. Your name was…?"

Steve forces his face into something as close to genuine as it can get. "Graham. I didn't catch yours."

Her gaze flits from Sam back to Steve, as though registering Sam's defiance. "Aurora," she says throatily, then brushes her hand against Steve's arm. "Take care now. Enjoy your day."

"You too," Steve says, and then he turns to Sam, doing his best to stay artificially cheerful. "Who the hell was that?" he mutters under his breath, still smiling.

"Trust me," Sam says, nodding and laughing. "You don't want to know." His eyes shift to the side, watching the woman as she walks away. "Keep smiling, there are eyes on us. You and me are gonna pretend to chat a bit, and then we're gonna go our separate ways, and _you're_ gonna avoid running into her again at all costs. Got me?"

Steve's smile flickers into disappointment, but he presses his lips together to look like he's giving a thoughtful answer. "I got you."

"Okay." Sam sets his hand against his neck -- affectionate again -- but then his fingers brush over his skin as they withdraw, testing for something. "Sorry," he mutters. "Gotta check."

"I understand." Truthfully, he's more than a little crestfallen. He examines Sam closely, looking for some evidence of how he's doing, but apart from looking tired and twenty years older, Sam's poker face is as direct as it's ever been. "Sam, how've you--"

"I can't talk right now. Nothing personal. God knows I wanna know what the hell's been going on, but I got somewhere to be." He points at Burrito. "You take that dog for a good long walk. Retrace your steps. Go the wrong way, get back to Jack's from the south. Burrito starts complaining, you tell him too bad. Do whatever it takes to shake a tail if you got one. You still know how to tell if you do?"

"I was Captain America three days ago," Steve says flatly.

"Shut up with that," he says through a laughing grin, and then offers his hand for Steve to shake. Steve only hesitates a second before taking it, barely staying removed from petty. "It's good to see you're safe, and I mean that. That girl's a bad situation, and it seemed like she went straight for you. I can't say why or how, but I know I don't like it. You see her again, make an excuse and get lost in a crowd. I mean it, Steve, do not try and deal with her yourself. If you really have been here for only three days, then you do not have the tools required to deal with this. Any questions?"

"How are you, Sam?"

Sam laughs, echoing and empty, as though Steve had just told an awful joke. "See you later," he says, and turns away with a glancing pat between the dog's ears.

Steve watches him go, then finally turns his face up to the late morning sun. When Sam and Aurora have finally long gone, he spins on his heel and sets down the nearest street, desperate to get away from here -- desperate to get away from them both.

  


***

  


Steve wanders the streets a long time. It's a less lonely experience with Burrito alongside, but that doesn't mean there's not a heaviness that threatens to settle into his bones every time he lets himself think.

He stays away from the water, trying to keep as many directions open for escape as possible. He wanders residential streets for a while, reveling in the cover of the spring's leafy trees. After a while he finds himself resting by the water at Prospect Park, letting Burrito have a sleep in the shade and a drink from a fountain. Steve eventually wanders east, then south, then northeast again, only setting off for Bucky's when clouds threaten in.

Bucky's still not home when Steve returns. Burrito scrambles for his food dish, its automatic dispersal having long since gone off. Steve throws him a couple of treats when he's done, congratulating him on his instincts and impressive mileage for the day. Then, upon demolishing the rest of the pasta Natasha had dug into that morning, Steve takes the chocolate cake and a fork and plops himself down on the sofa.

He stares the TV down, willing it to work. "Interface?"

Something chimes in the room.

"Watch… television."

The TV turns on. Steve sighs his relief and contents himself with the news network Bucky apparently left on.

" _The Porter administration is waiting for the reaction of officials in Russia today after a hail-mary attempt by the President to exchange political prisoners,_ " the newscaster says. " _Some watchdogs say the deal is not what it seems; they caution the public--_ "

"Interface," Steve says, wincing heavily. "Switch to Food Network." There's only so much ominous news he can take without anyone to explain it to him.

It seems _Cupcake Wars_ has devolved into a show where contestants throw cupcakes at each other from across enemy lines. Steve actually watches for a while, distantly impressed at how contestants seem to be using various kitchen supplies as projectile devices to get better yardage. It does have the effect of putting him off his cake, so he tells the TV to shut off and puts it back in the fridge. 

There's not a hell of a lot of media that's going to help his sense of isolation -- he knows that from experience. He fishes out his book from the bedroom and puts in a valiant effort anyway, stretching out on the sofa, limbs splayed and dangling as he tries to find a position that doesn't leave restlessness building in his joints.

Against the odds, he finishes the book. Then he lies and stares listlessly at the ceiling a while. He's useless without something to do, something to guide him. He rolls to the floor and does a few pushups just to pass the time, but he gets bored after a while and winds up lying facedown on the floor instead. He forces himself to his feet and washes the few dishes he's amassed in Bucky's absence; he leans on the counter and watches Burrito sleep, then decides to take a hot shower for the ten minutes he can. He tries again to find the dryer where Bucky's still holding his clothing hostage to no avail, then finds himself, hands shoved humbly in his pockets, with nothing to distract himself from Bucky's tremendous piles of books.

He approaches slowly, achingly curious and yet horribly cautious. The desk might've once been in use, but now it's drowning beneath towers of titles. Steve can see they're organized primarily by scientific subject: physics, biology, and -- most notably -- mutant physiology. The shelves that line the walls, on the other hand, overwhelmingly boast fiction and biographical nonfiction. Bucky seems to have done his best to catch up on past perspectives over the last two decades by reading on the history and politics of America, Russia, Eastern Europe, and South America. 

Steve picks a volume about the USSR from the shelf and thumbs through it. Many pages are well-annotated, Bucky's spindly writing winding through the margins. Sometimes his notes fill the blank of a page entirely, characters appearing in both roman and cyrillic scripts. Steve smiles and makes a note to ask Bucky for a summary on world politics later; imagines him gesticulating his frustration as he denigrates the new world order to him over the course of an evening. 

He slides the book back where he found it on the shelf and then stoops, intrigued by the novels filling the lower shelves. Almost overwhelmingly, the titles are classics Steve recognizes from the 2010s -- the same kinds of books provided to him when he first came out of the ice, plus some of the classics he knows Bucky came to love along the way. 

The odd thing about them is that Bucky seems to have bought duplicates, triplicates, sometimes even a dozen copies of the same title in different editions. Just to look at them there on the shelf, he can't see any reason for it. He pulls a few off the shelf and finds none of them seem to be first editions or remarkable in any respect -- they're just trade paperbacks, all of them apparently bought in secondhand shops. Apart from being paperbacks, the only thing they have in common are reduced prices written in pencil in the top corner of the books' front matter. 

Steve pulls out one of six copies of Dumas’ _The Three Musketeers_ from the shelf and thumbs through it, putting it back with amusement. He does the same with all four copies of the _Swiss Family Robinson_ and all three copies _Anna Karenina,_ finding no evidence that Bucky's engaged with any of the books at all.

It feels like a cipher. Steve smiles at them, certain there's something here that he's missing. Maybe he's so bored he's imagining things, but it's become a treasure hunt, now -- figure out that the hell Bucky's doing. For now, short of pulling the books entirely from the shelves, he can't think of anything else to do with them, so he leaves himself to mull it over and turns to the books stacked high on the desk. 

This has been the thing he's most scared to investigate. The titles on the spines have been catching his eye, and yet every time they did he felt an intractable tension, like the books were both calling to him and warding him away. Another Bucky mystery. Something else Bucky's trying to get to the bottom of. Steve wants to meet him in it, to share in the mystery with him, but there's a desperation and a context to it Steve probably can't touch. He gets the feeling Bucky assumes Steve will be too intimidated to investigate it. In a way, he's right.

The tallest stack is entirely about physics. Steve remembers the way Bucky used to pore over books like these when he could get his hands on them -- the way he used to scribble madly on a piece of paper and then chatter to Steve, fingers wrenched in his own hair, about the marvels of the universe. A century later and he's still at it. Bucky's calmer, now. Steve wonders if he chatters to the dog instead. 

He props open the cover of the top book on the stack: _Causality and Locality in Relative Space_. He can see at once that the degree of complication has gone up exponentially since Bucky was teaching himself about action at a distance in the 1930s. Steve's eyes fall out of focus as he leafs through the introduction, yet it seems to have made at least some sense to Bucky. Passages are underlined, some annotated in the margins – mostly exclamation points and lines of question marks at first, then one-word phrases, eventually drawing into more detailed notes. There are even diagrams, the further Steve leafs through. He has the suspicion it's taken Bucky years to get through this whole thing. There’s Bucky’s now-familiar scrawl, identical to the note left for him in the bedroom, but a page later shows something smoother and more looping, yet recognizably Bucky's. It's like his handwriting has evolved significantly over time. Steve wonders if he'd switched between hands. 

Then, to Steve's laughing surprise, Tony’s handwriting suddenly shows up alongside. His notes are only occasional and are often indecipherable, but from time to time he takes to insulting Bucky and correcting his work.

 _FUCK Newton,_ reads one of Bucky's margin notes.  
_Watch your mouth,_ follows Tony’s twice-underlined response.

Steve puts that book down and picks up the next. It's more of the same, albeit with more post-its -- one page about wave-particle distinctions is absolutely covered with them. Steve counts fourteen notes layered over one another, Tony's writing and then Bucky's, but it's Bucky's that sits supreme on the top, written in angry and slanted caps: 

_MUTANT POWERS ARE BOTH_  
_THEORETICAL AND ACTUAL_  
_YOU DENSE FUCK_

Tony's handwriting, beneath it: _I think you're missing the 'theoretical' part of 'theoretical physics.'_ Steve flips through the remaining twelve post-its to see the argument expands, and likely covers significantly more ground than merely the one page they're found on.

It doesn't change that Steve doesn't understand a word of it. He turns to the next pile of books, bracing himself with a sigh as he faces the question of mutant research.

It seems, at a glance, to be a significant field. He browses the titles and finally pulls _Enhanced Abilities for Dummies_ from the middle of the stack. It’s easily the most well-worn among the tomes; the book's corners, far from being merely dog-eared, turn up in unison, as though Bucky’d read them in the dead humidity of summer, or maybe in the bath. 

The front matter reveals a publication date of 2023 – five years after Steve disappeared. Steve rifles quickly through the pages, stopping to glance at a couple of post-its. He's far more curious about Bucky's comments than the theories themselves. The handwriting in the margins varies in its appearance, as though Bucky’s returned to this text again and again throughout the years, too:

 _Mutants may instinctively have access to a fourth dimension imperceptible to the rest,_ reads one post-it note – _possible to occupy plane physically?_ Then, in a different colour of ink and with writing far more slanted and thin, recognizably recent: _I had the wrong idea here if the dimension is time but maybe right if it's not. See Fourth Dimension._

Steve squints through confusion, but then scans the book spines in the pile until finds what he wants.

 _The Fourth Dimension: Toward a New Theory of Physics_ was written by Dr. Bruce Banner.

The front matter reveals that it’s a third edition, published in 2031. Steve pages to the foreword, both surprised and not at all to find it was written by Tony Stark:

> Dr. Bruce Banner (1969 – 2026, may he rest in peace) was a close personal friend of mine. He died too young, shepherded into an early grave by those who didn’t appreciate his genius when he was around to share it. Every time his theories -- now crucial -- were panned by the scientific community, he used to say with infuriating calm that science has always been "slow to adjust." 
> 
> Bruce, like the people he worked to protect, was a mutant. The toll his condition took on his body is certainly what killed him. The scientific community's active choice to be “slow to adjust" cost him his life, and yet he did not complain. To his dying breath, he worked to ensure others didn't have to suffer the way he did. He worked toward a theory of acceptance, however long it took to find ground.
> 
> Now that he’s passed on, his theories have finally taken root. He'd be proud of that. I'm livid about it. For every scientist who now believes in his theories, there are two more who continue to opt for skepticism. These people contribute to the unnecessary deaths and suffering of Enhanced beings across the world today, and there are too many we were too late to save. We owe it to Bruce's memory to do the most we can for those who continue to be ignored.
> 
> This third edition...

Steve shakes his head as the text devolves into jargon he can't keep up with. He leafs, once again, to the pages most decorated by post-its. Bucky’s angular scrawl tilts liberally through the pages, untinged by excitement or reaction. Steve suspects the yellow post-its were notes copied from a previous edition based on the handwriting, while the purple ones, used much more sparingly, seem to represent new thoughts and theories.

 _Chapter 6,_ one page particularly well-populated with post-its reads: _Accessing the Fourth Dimension._

Steve skims the first few pages with a finger, shaking his head with incomprehension. From “dimensional walls” and “Minkowski space” to “atomic alterations” and “phase shifting,” he can’t even begin to parse the information here. He turns over the page to find it surprisingly bereft of notes, except for one in the margins, written in Bucky's hand: 

_Get it through your head!!_

The phrase beside it is underlined so often and so deeply that the pen has perforated the page:

_There is no reason to believe it is possible to exist in the fourth dimension in any way physically, except for the ways we already do without knowing._

It hits Steve hard. He stares at the phrase, at Bucky's underlines and note, a long time. Then he slams the book shut and throws it back on top of the pile. He tries to combat against the feeling of being overwhelmed, but the realization is hard to shake that some of this research, at the very least, was probably carried out trying to get to the bottom of where the hell Steve went -- and no answers were ever found. As of five years ago, Bruce, Tony, and Bucky all apparently agreed there was no sense believing Steve was stuck anywhere. 

It's too unseemly to fully process. Steve reaches for the book again and leafs through its pages, trying to find some indication of where Bucky thought he _had_ gone. All he finds is the particular interest Bucky held in theories of phase shifting without any clue about whether or not it had to do with Steve. 

Strikingly, Steve is not mentioned in Bucky's notes at all.

Maybe he's overreacting. Maybe this was never about him at all. He pushes off from the desk and rubs the tension out of his face, rolling it out of his shoulders, jumping lightly in place. Without someone to guide him through whatever the hell he's looking at, any further reading is just going to leave him crawling up the walls with all he doesn't understand.

He needs a distraction again. His eyes fall back to the shelves stacked with novels, twelve to a line, remarkably unremarkable.

Maybe it's having read about theoretical physics, but Steve suddenly notices an entire shelf devoted solely to Kurt Vonnegut. The fifteen different copies of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ seems to set a record for paperback duplicates. He crouches in front of the shelf and finds, as with the other titles, that there seems nothing to distinguish the novels from one another in any way -- no first editions, nothing remarkable at all. Just fifteen trade paperbacks from various publishers of the same damn novel. 

It is, on the one hand, an understandable fixation, when it comes to Vonnegut. Steve had himself read that book more than once in the years before Bucky had come back to him. Still, the number of editions seems odd -- he must be collecting them for a _reason._

Steve shakes his head at them until his eye finally catches on one copy, nestled in the middle, far more battered than any other book on the shelf. Its spine is so cracked and broken that Steve wouldn’t have been able to read the title had it not been flanked on either side by the same book. He pulls it gingerly from the shelf and finds its pages peeling away from the spine in either direction, waterlogged and fragile. He feels almost too afraid to open it; when he turns it gently over in his hands, the front cover falls off.

He reaches to catch the cover before it floats down, but it’s still held on by a tenuous thread. Steve wonders why Bucky hasn’t thrown the book out or at least taped it back together; it's strange to see it so battered when there are so many others. 

Then, as he replaces the cover carefully against the title page, he sees some inscription, written in the clean, looping writing of an English instructor:

_From Tralfamadore,_  
_With Love_  
_Steve_

Steve stares at the words, transfixed. 

  


He didn't write them. The writing is utterly unlike his own; there is no mistaking this for something he might’ve done. And yet some other Steve, somewhere in the world, gifted this book to someone and inscribed a shared joke. This Steve, too, was lost in time. 

He turns the book over his hands, as though to look for some additional clues. Had Bucky started collecting books after finding this one? Steve imagines him at a used bookstore, stooping to pull it off the shelf and then standing there, dumbfounded, to find this inscription within. He doubts the book was this well-worn when he bought it; the penciled inscription in the corner suggests he bought it for the princely sum of $7.99. Or maybe he found it; maybe a kid left it for him. Maybe he hadn't carried it around like some kind of good luck charm, the way Steve wonders if he had. 

Steve exchanges a look with the dog, but when Burrito voices no objection, he throws himself down onto the sofa and turns carefully to the book's first page. He's not sure what the hell he's doing, exactly; he's read this book a thousand times already. It's just that, through the lens of the inscription, he can't shake the feeling that he might be able to learn something from it.

He leafs through the pages, one at a time, until he finds the first evidence of Bucky's engagement. There are passages underlined, but no margin notes:

_When Billy finally got home to Ilium after the airplane crash, he was quiet for a while._

Steve stares at it a long time. His heart rate picks up. The next words underlined--

 _He said he had been kidnapped by the Tralfamadorians._ Then, _The Tralfamadorians had taken him through a time warp, so that he could be on Tralfamadore for years, and still be away from Earth for only a microsecond._

Steve sets the book on his chest and stares at the ceiling, aching inexplicably with something unknown. He must sit there unmoving for ten solid minutes before he finds it in him to read on.

 _When a Tralfamadorian sees a corpse, all he thinks is that the dead person is in bad condition in that particular moment, but that the same person is just fine in plenty of other moments,_ reads the underlined script.

He flips back to the front inscription again, careful not to rip off the front cover as he does.

_From Tralfamadore, With Love._

Steve stares with his hand over his mouth for what feels like an age. Then finally he picks up the book and starts from the beginning, determined to find an answer to a question he can't name.

  


***

  


The key in the door startles him. It seems to startle Burrito, too -- the dog hastens to his feet a little dopily, drunk with sleep. Steve glances outside to see, thank God, that it's still dark; he hasn't lost himself so completely to the book that he forgot to register whether Bucky was alive or dead.

His eyes try to find a clock and settle on an interface display. It's a little after 2am.

Bucky steps in with peculiar suddenness.

His eyes find Steve right away. He looks shy, almost, like he hadn't wanted to hope that Steve would be there. Steve sets the book down in his lap and gives Bucky an honest once-over, and suddenly it hits him -- how their life could've been like this. How Steve might've stayed up all night when Bucky was on missions, unable to sleep until he knew he was safe. Their dog might've rushed to greet him; Steve might've uncovered some leftovers Bucky probably made before he left. They might've debriefed over warmed-up pie, speaking in murmurs just to lean in close.

Maybe seeing him strikes something in Bucky, too, because for a while neither of them says anything. Finally Bucky closes the door and throws his keys in the dish. 

"Hey," Bucky rasps, holding a hand to Burrito. He sounds tired; he looks it, too.

"Hi." Suddenly Steve's smiling. He doesn't know why. "You made it."

"I did."

"Was it -- alright?"

Bucky shrugs and looks away, and the room settles, becomes even. He stoops to give Burrito the greeting he deserves, muttering nonsense into the side of his neck. "I trusted my gut and my gut was right. In that sense it was downright reassuring." He stands a little slowly, with just a bit of a wince, hand braced at his arm.

Steve frowns. "You good?"

"Yeah. Dislocated my shoulder." He unzips his athletic jacket with his left hand, his right hanging stiff by his side. "Surprised that's all I got. Listen -- I gotta shower. Get the Russian off me."

"Is that literal Russian or metaphorical?"

Bucky's already trudging to the bathroom with his eyes closed, but he cracks one open at Steve as he passes. "Metaphorical, jackass."

"So you didn't blow up any buildings this time."

"I didn't say that." Then he's out of Steve's eyesight, Burrito trotting dutifully behind him.

Steve waits until he hears the door slide closed to let the smile hit his face. In no time, the feeling turns sideways; becomes a little weird where it sits in his gut. Steve puts the book on the table, tipping his head back, trying to stay in touch with the reality of the situation. 

Bucky's voice carries over the bathroom's running water. Fondness slams at him hard; Steve's lost to it, stupid.

Bucky says, "Interface, call Sam Wilson," followed by a surprising number of unanswered rings. 

"Hey," Sam says, finally. His voice rasps with sleep.

"Hey," says Bucky. There's a softness to it that takes Steve by surprise. "Sorry to wake you."

"Don't be. You good?"

"Fucked up my good arm -- I'll go in in the morning, shut up already -- but otherwise without a hitch."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Nat checked it. Quit henpecking."

"Fine," Sam says. "See you at headquarters."

There's a tense pause. The tap shuts off. "I don't need a babysitter," Bucky says.

"It's not like that, don't get contrarian. I want to debrief you on what happened with _me_ today. Is that alright, Captain Asshole? If we talk about me a while?"

"Oh, go back to sleep. You're annoying when you're conscious."

Sam breathes a gust of laughter. "Hey." Steve can hear plain the smile in Sam's voice. "I'm glad you're alright."

"Yeah." Bucky sighs, heavy. "Yeah. Me too. See you tomorrow, Sam."

"See you tomorrow, Jack."

The interface chimes off as the tap turns back on. Steve should go to bed now that he knows Bucky's alright, but--

"Interface," Bucky grinds out. "Call Clint Barton."

Steve shuts his eyes and lets his head collapse against the arm of the sofa.

"Hey," Clint says, almost at once. He sounds like he has his mouth full. Not asleep, then.

"Hey, man. Nat should be there in ten minutes or so."

"Thanks, she called already. Things go okay on your end?"

"Depends on who you ask. If Nat tries to tell you different, I was right."

"Well, don't ask me to tell her."

"Wouldn't dare. Just setting the record."

Clint laughs -- a husky sound, worn down by time. "You good? Nat said you were, uh... stressed."

Another pause. "I'm good," Bucky says after a second. "It'll come out in the wash. Always does."

"Okay," Clint says. "Well, go the fuck to sleep, man, you sound like you're dead."

"Well, legally speaking..."

"Yeah, yeah. Sweet dreams, ghostie."

"Unlikely. Enjoy your midnight sandwich."

"It's 2:30, bro."

"...Fuck," Bucky says.

The interface cuts off Clint's laughter as the shower turns on, and Steve puts his hands over his face to try to stop feeling like such an asshole. He's still hoping for something. He realizes that now. Apparently spurned on by a feeling after Bucky came home, Steve's realized what his research told him is what he already knew:

That Steve, to Bucky, is hard to shake.

Steve _wants_ to be hard to shake. But to think of all the time Bucky's spent wondering what happened to him makes his chest ache so hard he rubs at his own sternum. He looks to the books again. Years and years worth of notes and evidence, amassed over so much time that Bucky'd learned to write with his other hand in the interim. It aches, and yet Steve wants it. 

He feels like such an asshole. He's eavesdropping on his ex, whom he left and wants back.

And Steve is still in love with Bucky, that much is clear. He'd been in love with him three days ago, so it's not surprising to find he still is. But Bucky is a different man now. He's stronger and bolder, authoritative yet laidback. Steve has the strange impression that he makes a better commander than Steve ever did. He reminds Steve of the Bucky who'd been made sergeant within weeks, with that razor-sharp focus and relentless determination.

All this sits in his gut and weighs at him hard. He loves this man he barely knows, for all he reminds him of the man he used to know.

But none of this is the way it should be. It's eighteen years too late, and there's nothing Steve can say or do to change--

"How'd it go with Burrito?"

Steve starts at the sound of Bucky's voice. It's distant, floating down the hall from the bathroom. He'd been too lost in thought to even notice the shower turn off. 

"Oh, uh -- fine," Steve says, a little absently, but then he frowns and corrects. "Or… I mean, Burrito was fine. He's a great dog, you found a good friend. But I ran into someone who… I dunno. It was weird."

An awful, fraught beat. Then: "You ran into someone? Or someone ran into you?"

"More like the second one? You were right; Burrito's pretty recognizable. Some woman called his name, and she was -- Sam rescued me, but it was still a weird--"

Bucky appears suddenly at the foot of the sofa, pulling on a shirt. His right arm's still stiff at his side and his left's turned metallic again, sleeker than he remembers. Steve wonders how he does it, makes it switch to flesh and back. 

In the instant before it disappeared under the fabric of his shirt, Steve would swear there was something metal at Bucky's side, too. "Hey," Steve says, pointing.

"Describe this person."

But he's distracted now. Steve sits up and reaches to lift Bucky's shirt, but Bucky slaps his hand away with barely a beat.

Steve blinks up at him, shocked. "Oh."

"Describe this person to me."

"Buck -- are you hurt?"

"Sam rescued you from _who_?"

"What was that at your hip? What's--"

"Whatever it was," Bucky says, severe, "it is of secondary importance to the fact that Sam Wilson had to interfere in an interaction you had today. I am not fucking around, Steve. Tell -- me -- what -- happened."

Steve holds his eye, sharp with defiance. He is relieved to see Bucky looks himself again now that he's showered. Stubble clouds his cheeks, giving the circles under his eyes company in shadow. If he looks exhausted, the look is familiar. 

"It was a woman," Steve says slowly, and Bucky's face irons out from under anger at once. "She was on the tall side, wore boots that made her taller; jet black hair, except where it was grey. She had blue eyes. Striking. People took notice of her. Didn't seem to care that she stood out."

Bucky nods. "Go on."

"Held herself with authority, but I got a vibe. Covered well -- made myself sound younger, put the old local accent on a little heavy, changed vocal pitch. Tried to be Graham, a kid from Brooklyn, like you said. She needled at me until I was getting a little unsteady on it though -- that's when Sam jumped in. She seemed like she knew what she was doing, interrogating me so directly. I was worried she had some kind of psychic power."

"She doesn't," Bucky says shortly.

So he does know her. "Who is she?"

Bucky assesses him, as though checking him for integrity, but then he shakes his head. "She's an Enhanced," he says quietly. "We've run into her before. She… comes to UFoE for help sometimes."

Steve's eyebrows fly up. "Really?"

"She's not… consistent. In her alignment." He rolls his left shoulder in something like a shrug, then winces a little, opening and closing his hand a few times. "We haven't heard from her in a while. I assume Sam was tracking a lead on something else and came across you two by chance. Probably she's working for unsavoury elements." He looks at Steve carefully. "I don't like that she found you."

"What kind of unsavoury elements?"

But Bucky waves a hand, like there's a lot of history he doesn't want to explain. "Sometimes anti-mutant orgs will hire mutants to incite unrest. That creates public consensus, which influences policy. But there are also independent brotherhoods of Enhanced that begrudge those who try to go mainstream. Some feel UFoE is--" he pulls a face-- "forcing mutants to waste their considerable talents contributing labour to mainstream society. They'd like to see us disrupted, to say the least. I'd say it's most likely she's working for them."

"So Sam knew her too."

"Yeah," says Bucky. "And now she knows who you're affiliated with. It was good he stepped in, but her interrogation was ultimately successful. Sam told you to take a lap, I assume?"

"Yeah, and I did. I was surprised with how quickly Sam left, it felt... hasty."

Bucky waves a dismissive hand. "It wasn't you. Listen -- stay clear of her, alright? You see her again, get gone _fast_. Your unfamiliarity with this world is a liability that she will exploit. She might not have mind control, but she can talk her way into a situation just fine."

Steve shakes his head. "This seems like a lot of concern over someone with my skills."

Bucky just stares at him. Steve gets the idea. "Fine, fine. I promise to get gone."

Bucky nods, just once. "Thank you. And no one else approached you? She didn't circle around or anything?"

Steve shakes his head. "No tails, no other encounters. Spent some time in Prospect Park, walked in circles, switched directions, came home from the south."

"Okay," he mutters. "You did good. Thanks for the info."

"No problem," he says, then adds -- "You do know I used to do this daily, right? Like, as of last week?"

Bucky purses his lips into the kind of smile that tells Steve he's not convinced. "You're also the kind of guy who rides his motorcycle into the heart of the battle without caring about anything so pesky as cover, so I wanted to make sure."

"I have never--"

"Maria has receipts, and so do I. Don't start with me."

Steve smiles at him, hopelessly endeared. Then, before Bucky can step away again, Steve rolls to his knees and pulls up the corner of his shirt to see what's underneath it. 

"Now what the hell is going on with--"

But he's shocked to a halt. From the second of a look of it he gets, it becomes clear it's not a brace. A great plate of steel wraps around his ribcage, extending almost all the way down to his hip, cutting significantly across his pec and up to his collarbone. Skin grafts it to the rest of his body. The scarring isn't as harsh as it used to be at his shoulder, but it's still unpleasant to look at. Steve has the impression that if he pulled Bucky's collar to the side, it would extend most of the way across his shoulder. 

It's almost like the damage area of his prosthetic has expanded over time, but he doesn't get time to check on it properly. Bucky angrily takes his wrist in hand and removes it swiftly from his person, throwing him back. 

"What gives you the right," Bucky grits out, and then he shakes his head at him, openly furious. "You never did know how to let a damn thing rest."

Steve blinks up at him, not sure where to start. "Bucky -- what _happened_?"

He tries to reach forward again, but Bucky's stepped far enough back to stay out of Steve's reach. "I got shot."

"No, you didn't."

"For _God's_ sake. Leave it alone."

"Does it hurt?"

When Bucky runs his prosthetic through his hair, it's shaking.

Steve sobers at once. Bucky breathes at him, forcing calm. "I need you," Bucky says, voice dangerously low, "to drop it, right now, and leave it dropped. You think it's not dealt with?" He gestures angrily around the room. "You think I spent eighteen years just waiting for you to show up and teach me how to deal with my body? I'm used to it, Steve, whatever it is, and it's been dealt with, and it's not your concern."

"But I--"

"Why do you think you're entitled to any personal information about me? Huh? What makes you think you're entitled to a goddamned thing?"

"I just--" 

Bucky stares.

"I... guess I'm not."

"Miracle of fucking miracles," Bucky mutters. "Did that actually sink in?" 

"Yeah." Steve sounds crestfallen, but he feels a thousand times worse. "It sunk in."

Bucky breathes at him a while, short and furious. "The world didn't just stop because you did, Steve," he finally says. "Maybe you need to slow down and think about approaching this world with a modicum of sensitivity. See how it works out for you. I know it's not your strong suit but it's not too fucking late to learn. You get me?"

There's an apology budding at the tip of Steve's tongue, but he's not sure he can get the words out steady. 

He hesitates too long. Bucky shakes his head and turns down the hall.

"Bucky--"

"I'm going to bed." 

Steve sets a hand over his mouth to counteract the rising bile. He wants to call him back, but he knows it'd be a mistake to do it. He doesn't have anything to say for himself -- so he sits there instead, self-loathing, waiting for the sound of the closing door. 

When it doesn't come, Steve finds it in him to crane his head to look down the hall. 

Bucky's staring back at him, as though he'd been waiting for him to do it, eyes flashing eerily by the bathroom light. "Don't ask anyone else about this," Bucky tells him quietly. "Tell me you won't go behind my back on this."

Steve blinks at him, a little bewildered. "I won't."

"If you do, you can get out now." Bucky gestures at his side and then at Steve. "Disobey my wishes like this and you haven't earned the reciprocity of my help. I know it'll be hard for you to sit on your hands--"

"I hear what you're saying, Bucky. It's your business. It's dropped."

Bucky nods. He looks so tired. Steve wishes he could reach out.

"Okay," Bucky says. He drags his prosthetic fingers across the doorframe as he turns. "Go to sleep, Rogers."

"I -- gotta take Burrito out."

Bucky turns his face to the ceiling, supported by his hand against the frame. "No, I can..." But he trails off, like it pains him even to think of doing anything more. 

Steve shakes his head. "You've done enough today, Bucky. I got this, it's no stress on me."

Bucky doesn't move for a long time. Then, with a shake in his breath -- "I'm so tired," he whispers.

Steve would swear he feels his heart break.

"I know," Steve tells him. "Go to sleep, Buck. I got this."

Bucky's face is still tilted to the ceiling. His right hand cradles close to his gut; his back is still turned. "Thank you," he says.

Then he steps forward and gently shuts the door.

  



	7. The Pleasure That Ice Cream Could Give

  


### September, 1938

Bucky always came home from a night out dancing a little flushed, a little drunk, and wanting to make out with Steve the whole rest of the night.

"I can't get enough of you," Bucky said, crowding Steve against the arm of the sofa, mouthing his way along Steve's neck. Steve always fell hard for him when he was like this: smelling of sweat, the taste of whiskey lurking in the corners of his mouth. He liked to seek it out, liked to get Bucky to give it over, but all Bucky wanted to do was keep necking.

"How many girls you make time with tonight?" Steve was already Bucky's, but he liked to make him work for it. 

"None," Bucky muttered. "I swear to you, Steve, you're the only one I ever think about. Out on that dancefloor I wish it was you I was throwing around. I wish you'd come with me."

"No you don't."

"I do. At least I like to look at you."

"Look at me not dancing?"

"Think of you like this." He leaned Steve long over the sofa and crawled after him, mouth hot, making Steve feel like the world.

"You're drunk," Steve muttered at his lips. He could taste the night all over him.

"You're the only thing," Bucky said, and he slipped a hand under the curve of Steve's back and held him flush. He dragged his hips, and _oh,_ God, Steve loved it when Bucky went dancing. "I'll never be rid of you. Not in a million years. I love you, Steve, you know that, right?"

"Bucky--"

Bucky mouthed at his throat again; tipped Steve's head to the side to give him a wider plane of access. Steve moaned a little, a cresting sound. "Let me do right by you, hm?" Bucky said. "I just wanna kiss you and that's all."

He shifted, dragged his hips again, and Steve gasped with it, already gone. Bucky said at his collarbone, his voice dragged to a whisper, "I'm wired for you, you gotta know. _Steve_ , you're just--" 

And he planted his forehead against Steve's, words abandoned to the rut of his hips, both of them lost to the way their cocks dragged together. Steve wrapped his fingers at the back of Bucky's neck and let himself be taken by the force of this thing that burned in him so fierce, that no one could ever take from them.

Bucky dragged his hips until Steve came, still in his pants, and Bucky laughed with it, adoring, mouthing his way across his skin. "God, Steve, you -- fuck -- _you_ \--" and he held Steve against him and rutted until he came.

Bucky set his weight down, then, down hard against him, hot and heavy and smelling of booze. He burrowed his face against the crook of Steve's neck. He seemed so alive to Steve then. 

"You oughtta let me teach you," Bucky finally said, mumbling, in the throes of exhaustion. "You and me, in the kitchen."

"My lungs, Buck."

"Fuck what they think, to hell with 'em."

A bewildered pause; then Bucky snorted a laugh against Steve's neck. He kissed him there, in the soft of his throat, again and again, like he couldn't get enough.

Steve ran his fingers through Bucky's hair, as helpless as him. "Are you falling asleep or are you kissing me again?"

"Mm," said Bucky.

"Okay." Steve shoved at his shoulders. "Up you get. We're not falling asleep like this."

"Donwanna."

"Get up and clean and then you can kiss me all you want. All night if you mean it."

And that made Bucky nuzzle in close before rolling off him entirely; and five minutes later they were naked in bed and Bucky was half draped over him, mouth hot at Steve's neck as he drifted into sleep. 

Steve thought if only he'd go dancing all week they'd never have a care in the whole damn world.

  


***

  


Bucky's not in the apartment when Steve wakes up. 

He peeks his head inside the open door to Bucky's bedroom. He doesn't want to intrude, but he's sure by now that the dryer is either in here or doesn't exist. He doesn't think Bucky's the type to steal his clothes for laughs, nor lie about something as mundane as a dryer. Steve hesitates a minute, but figures he's already in enough trouble with Bucky as it is. He's got nothing to lose. 

He steps inside. It's such a beautiful room, cozy and warm. Steve wishes he felt welcome in it; wished it had more in it that he recognized from days gone by. The messy stack of the books is strange. The Bucky that Steve knew would have made sure they stayed orderly. Then there's the way the bed is made -- taut and meticulous, a harsh contrast. It's a habit Bucky had during the war; he would kneel each morning and wind his bedroll so tightly, so perfectly. Steve would watch him do it every time, the same way he'd watch him smoke -- with open longing, over something so simple. Now here it is again: order and chaos, a balancing pair.

Steve works up his courage and pulls open the closet door, certain something about it is going to surprise him. Evidence of a former lover, maybe, or of the ways Bucky's moved on without him. But all he finds is the damnable dryer. 

His clothes are still in it, ingloriously wrinkled. Steve casts around for a basket and finally takes one off the floor, dumping Bucky's dirty laundry onto his perfect bed with a faint pang of vindication. Bucky's been holding his clothing hostage for two days. If Steve is intruding, he no longer cares. 

Vindication gives way to scrutiny as he starts pulling out the dryer's contents. Some articles of his clothing appear sun-stained and faded, as though Bucky'd left the box that had held them open by a window for a while. Three days and eighteen years ago they'd been like new, but now-- 

It's a ridiculous thing to dwell over. Steve strives to accept it, but he's soon frowning again on pulling out a hoodie he doesn't recognize. He wonders if Bucky'd put it in there by mistake at first, but then he _does_ recognize it -- his favourite sweater for rainy days. It used to be green once, a much darker shade. The sleeves weren't this threadbare or pale, it wasn't frayed at the hems--

The only reason the sweater would look like this is if someone had worn it... a _lot_. 

Had Bucky…?

Steve stares at it, holding it in one hand. Peering into the closet, he tries to figure out if there's a dearth of hoodies hanging up in the closet, but it might be the most populous article of clothing Bucky owns. That may explain Bucky's sudden awkwardness on the subject of his clothes. It's one thing to have to explain why the colours are sun-stained after eighteen years; it's another to explain why his coziest things have been worn through.

Steve's heart starts to sink. He's not sure whether to take the sweater or not. He doesn't want to presume either way; he wouldn't want to take it from Bucky after all this time. Not if it's…

In the end he folds it kind of loosely, a weight forming in the pit of his stomach. He puts it on the bed just not to have to deal with it anymore, then takes the basket with the rest of his clothes and goes back to the guest room, keen to put the landmine that is Bucky's bedroom behind him. The dresser in the guest room is empty -- or so Steve thinks, until he opens the second and third drawers to find them stuffed full of books. 

In the end it doesn't matter. His remaining worldly belongings fit in the one drawer anyway.

He changes slowly, trying to shake the terrible feeling following him. It turns out putting on clean clothes doesn't help. At loose ends, he finds Burrito and, finding his apathy aspirational, lies on the floor with him awhile, scritching at his ears with his cheek set against the floor.

"I missed a lot," Steve tells him. "I really… I should've been here."

Burrito cocks one eyebrow at him after the other, offering no answers. Lying on the floor doesn't change much either. Steve forces himself to standing and jumps in place a while, to Burrito's solemn bewilderment. Then he goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge, convinced that food will help him, or at the very least distract him. 

He braces himself against the shock of cold air and shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, he's accosted by an orange post-it attached to a container. _Eat me,_ it says in Bucky's now-familiar scrawl. There's a face drawn in the top corner, not without skill, with a pout to the lips of his sad expression. Steve realizes, if he leans back and blurs his eyes, that it might be meant to be a young version of himself. 

Steve smiles. A peace offering. Maybe he's not in as much trouble with Bucky as he thought. He opens the container and finds within potato dumplings -- like the ones his Ma used to make. Relief floods him, full and unexpected. He hadn't known he'd needed this until the dumplings were in his hand -- a little hint not only of the world he's just left, but of the world he left long ago.

He falls into the nearest chair, setting on them with ravenous haste. They're just like Ma's; they might be better. Steve has no idea how Bucky figured out how to make them. He eats every last one of them, maybe faster than he should. 

Then he throws himself onto the sofa and casts an arm over his eyes. 

The rock in his stomach doesn't dissolve as he digests. Suddenly, Steve feels like he's in mourning. He couldn't say what tipped him into it -- whether it was his mother's dumplings, last night's fight, or those frayed sleeves on that goddamned sweater. He tries to think about anything else, but the blood sloshes in his ears louder and louder the longer he lies there. 

Tired of himself, he whispers a profanity and rolls to sitting, reaching for the nearest book. It's _Slaughterhouse-Five_.

_From Tralfamadore, With Love._

That won't help. He puts it facedown on the table and steps to his feet. He wanders to the bookshelf, picks up the nearest novel he doesn't recognize from the shelf -- _Things Fall Apart,_ which sounds fitting enough -- but no words sink in. 

Finally he tosses the book to the floor and puts his head in his hands. "Fuck."

Burrito raises his head.

Steve stares at him. "Sorry." For a second, he really feels it. He must really be acting like a sucking vortex of misery if even the dog is picking up on it. 

But Burrito keeps staring at him, as though sorting something out. A second later he struggles to his feet. Steve watches as he heads toward the front door, coming back with his leash in his mouth. He deposits it on the sofa cushion beside him and then nudges at Steve's knee with his head. 

It takes a second, but the smile does blossom on Steve's face, even if it is a wretched and wavering thing. "You really need to go out again," Steve asks him, "or are you just trying to keep me busy?"

"Urf," says Burrito.

Steve nods, then picks up his leash. They go for a walk regardless, complete with gloves and rose-coloured glasses. The weather's pristine, excessively so; it edges on muggy, which doesn't help with the feeling of being steadily drowned from within. Burrito takes Steve where he wants to go, wending this way and that for almost precisely an hour. 

They manage -- blessedly -- to get home without incident. Steve's sweaty and a little less restless, but no less miserable. "You tried, buddy," he tells Burrito, giving him a liberal amount of belly pats, then gets in the shower, desperate to get out of the clothes clinging to him. He leaves the water running a little chilly, hoping it'll snap him out of it, but a few seconds of standing under it he decides he hates this plan and turns the heat up to its highest setting instead.

The drops roll off him, searing. It's this side of uncomfortable. It helps, a little. Steve shuts off the shower when the water runs cold but then keeps standing there, hands braced out in front of him, waiting for breathing to stop feeling like a chore.

He misses him. He's in Bucky's house and he can't stop missing him.

Realizing it doesn't help. He bows his head and takes steam into his lungs, willing it to replace this terrible ache. His teeth clench together hard, hands folding into fists against the tile--

On the other side of the door -- a shifting.

Steve cocks an ear. It didn't sound like Burrito. "Bucky?" he calls, but then he worries -- would the shower have drowned Burrito out, if there was an intruder? Had his run-in with that woman yesterday attracted enough attention to yield a situation?

Steve steps out of the shower, adrenaline roaring high enough to lead him to action. He looks around the bathroom for something he can use as a weapon.

"Yeah," Bucky says.

Steve exhales hard. "Wow." 

"Sorry." 

"No, I -- I don't know what I expected."

"It's -- I should've announced myself."

"It's your home. It's fine."

"There's a knife hidden in the middle of the third row of towels if there ever is a situation."

Steve smiles. "Thank you."

"I, uh--" Bucky sighs. "Guess you found your laundry."

The smile drops from his face. "Oh. Yeah. I kept forgetting to ask, then couldn't find…" He sighs, gesturing at nothing. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"It's -- fine."

"I meant to put your dirty clothes back. Basket's in the other room."

"My fault. Don't worry about it." 

Steve suddenly realizes he's standing naked in the middle of the room trying to have a conversation with Bucky through the door. He shakes his head and reaches for his clothes. "I didn't know how to explain," Bucky says as Steve gets dressed. His voice is too close. He must be standing right there. "About why your clothes look like shit, so I just… didn't. Should've done it differently. It's stupid, that you had to..."

Steve shuts his eyes. Even muttered, even through the door, it's vulnerable enough to lay him flat. "It's fine. We're... I mean, if something… Well, I'm glad that something -- that there was something of mine, if you--" _Needed it,_ he thinks, but his stomach wrenches too hard for him to quite get the words out.

There's a long silence, then a gentle thump on the other side of the door. "I only wore it when I missed you."

It's quiet, but clear. Steve still wonders if he heard right. "Oh."

"I guess that was enough to make an impact on its integrity." Bucky gives a gusting laugh, like he can't believe himself. "Believe it or not, it actually looks better now. Should've seen it before I washed it, I…" He trails off again. 

"I don't mind, Bucky. If it couldn't be me..."

Then his voice peters out, too. He leans hard against the counter and looks at himself: a broken fool, overwhelmed by broken silence.

"You alright?" Bucky asks, sounding as sorry as Steve feels.

"Yeah," Steve says. "Yeah, I just woke up a little... heartbroken today, I guess. Don't mind me."

Another long pause. "Jesus," Bucky murmurs, then -- "come eat some ice cream."

Steve stares in the mirror for five agonized seconds before finding it in him to push off and finish getting dressed.

  


***

  


He finds Bucky sitting at the kitchen bar eating ice cream out of the bucket. "Pistachio green tea," Bucky says, sliding it toward him across the bar.

Steve wrinkles his nose and sits down. "Really?"

"This one ice cream company jumped on the train of fad foods, started mocking the shit out of bullshit health wisdom by putting it in an ice cream. Sam turned me onto them." He gestures at it. "It's good."

Steve tastes it. It is not good.

Bucky hacks with laughter at the look on Steve's face. "I figured you'd be like this." He pulls the bucket back toward him. "There's strawberry in the freezer for your... heartbreak, or whatever."

Steve can't fight the smile spreading on his face. "Thank you. That's… considerate."

"Doesn't make it my fault."

"I know."

"And I don't feel guilty."

"You shouldn't."

Bucky nods into his ice cream, and then hits Steve in the leg. "Did you get my dumplings?"

Steve's smile breaks full. "Yeah. I got the dumplings. How'd you figure out how to make them like that? I've had my share of potato dumplings, but not like Ma's."

"Practice," Bucky says. "Good memory. Strong palette helps."

"Your diner patrons don't know how good they have it."

"Don't I know it."

For a minute they just sit there, until Steve reaches out and slowly pulls the pistachio ice cream toward himself.

Bucky looks vindicated. "You'll warm to it," he says, handing him a spoon.

"Yeah, we'll see about that."

Bucky smiles, flips the utensil between his fingers -- an old nervous habit. "Uh… listen. About last night. You caught me at the end of a bad mission. I was injured and unhappy about how it went down, and you caught the brunt of it. It wasn't on you."

Steve stares at him a second, a little in shock. "I was out of line."

"Yeah, a little. But I also know you're just trying to catch up, and I could've been nicer about it. Or I could've at least gone to bed instead of reading you the riot act, since I knew how I was feeling. It shouldn't have gone that way, is what I'm trying to say, and I -- guess I don't want you to stop asking questions just because my temper's short."

Steve occupies himself by putting the spoon in his mouth. He tries not to look at him, but then they look at each other anyway.

Bucky sighs, eyes flicking over the subdued look on his face, before he leans away from Steve and lifts his shirt as high as he can. "The metal protects what's underneath," he says, tapping the panel spreading across his left side. Steve can see almost the whole thing -- the way it wraps around his flank, contouring the shape of a pec, of an armpit. It seems to emulate old musculature, right down to the ridges of his ribs. "Complex synthetics. Advanced shit, made from materials that shouldn't exist. Cost a fortune, but works like the original. Low pain, minimal maintenance, you know the drill."

Steve's just trying to understand what he's seeing. He reaches out a tentative hand to drag gentle fingertips over the alloy; he holds at it, brazen, with a testing palm.

Bucky exhales in clear discomfort and removes his hand -- gently, this time. Fingers at his palm. "Leave it," he says, letting his shirt fall to his hips again.

Steve swallows hard as he withdraws. He tries not to flex his hand when Bucky lets go. "What -- _original_? I mean -- what's been replaced, exactly? I don't--"

"Shit," he murmurs. "Sorry. Just muscles, Rogers, run-of-the-mill tissue."

"Oh. Is that all?"

Bucky presses his lips together, smiling without smiling. "It could've been worse."

" _How?_ "

Bucky looks away and takes the ice cream decisively back. Steve gets the hint, but -- "What happened?" he asks anyway. It's like his goddamned mouth has a mind of its own. "You don't have to -- but it's kind of a big deal. You told me you got shot -- why? Don't say it again either, I'm not buying it."

"It wasn't anything. Nothing _happened._ Just regular old muscle death. Wish it was more exotic than it is." Bucky shrugs and still won't look at him. "Rather than have the muscle debrided and face early retirement, I had the whole works replaced so I could stay in the field. It was a hard decision for a lot of people to accept, but it was _my_ decision. I don't want to have to argue with you about it too. That's why I lied."

Steve studies him, careful. "Alright," he finally says.

"Okay," Bucky says, dubious.

Steve picks up his spoon and pulls the ice cream back again. "But it was your prosthetic, right?"

Bucky sighs hard, head hanging. "Can't let a thing drop, can you?"

"No."

He rubs at his eyes with a forefinger and thumb. "Yeah, it was the prosthetic. The connections on the old one started getting fritzy, so I had it replaced. It's not surprising; used to happen all the time when I was with Hydra. Hardware wears out, that's what it does. So I upgraded models." He gestures to his left side. "New one was sleeker than the last, did more, had weapons options -- but it was also heavier. Turned out the strain was more than my muscles could handle. That was a calculation we never actually did."

"And you pushed through the associated pain until it became a problem with no solution." 

"I made a solution of my own."

Steve just makes a sound in his throat.

"That? That bullshit you're shoving on me right now? That's pretty much why I didn't want to tell you." Bucky takes the ice cream firmly back.

"Someone must have told you to get right," Steve says.

"Constantly." 

"And you ignored them."

"You bet I did."

Steve looks at him, just looks at him, not bothering to care that Bucky doesn't want to hear it. "Bucky, _why?_ "

He breathes into his ice cream with his jaw squared and set, and Steve sees it, suddenly: the vulnerability behind that indignation. Steve melts in the face of it, the way he always has. Then he reaches out, softly, hooking a solitary finger in the collar of his shirt.

He doesn't have to pull it far before Steve finds what he wants. The graft is vast, skin giving way to curving steel just before the collarbone. Steve drags his thumb along the seam of it as Bucky's hand closes into a fist against the counter, menacing. But he lets him. He doesn't throw him off, this time.

"Does it _hurt_?" Steve asks.

"No."

He strokes a thumb over Bucky's skin before forcing himself to face forward again. "Well," he says neutrally. "I bet your one-night stands love a man with scars."

If thinly, reluctantly, Bucky cracks a smile. "They're not one-night stands."

"No? All those 'good lays' with younger guys you won't tell your age to are long-term relationships?"

"Well... I wouldn't go that far."

"So they're one-night stands."

"The amount of effort I put into these encounters, I sure as shit they hold more depth than that."

" _Depth_ , huh?"

Bucky rolls his eyes, collapsing a little against the counter. "Oh, brother."

"Hard pressed to figure out what else to call 'em, Buck, if they're only one night long."

"Half of them aren't. I date. Regularly. Months at a time."

"Oh, yeah? When's the last time you--"

Bucky moves as though to shove him off his stool, but Steve's ready for it. They have a brief fight, laughing, one-handed, before Bucky finally lands a shove at Steve's face. "Listen," Bucky says as Steve straightens, grinning wide. "Speaking of -- whatever, I got a thing I want to do tonight."

Steve's expression drops hard. "Oh."

"Oh, no. Not--" Bucky waves a hand, like he's fast-forwarding through irrelevant details. "Me and Sam used to do this -- it started out as kind of a weird dare-grudge situation. Shut the fuck up," he says, before Steve can open his mouth. "I don't want to hear your smartass quips, just listen for a second. A bunch of years ago, before we got together, Sam found out I danced back in the day and made a big deal about it. He tried to imply I wasn't any good, so I took him to this swing bar and I _showed_ him."

Steve's mouth drops open. "What? You -- _what_?"

"What else was I gonna do?"

"You _dance_?"

"Used to, didn't I?"

Steve coughs out an elated sort of laugh. "You dance."

Bucky's mouth presses thin. "Turns out there was more than just talk behind it with Sam, too. Apparently he used to swing dance in college."

" _Sam_?"

"You'd think he'd have been more upfront about that, right? Man was rusty on a few of the classics, but he basically knew what he was doing, so I… took it upon myself to show him some other moves. Kinda regularly. For six years." Suddenly it's not so hard for Steve to imagine how they went from constant bickering to stumbling into bed. "When we split up, Sam left the city for a year and I… just kept going."

"Oh, Bucky."

"To hook up! I wasn't -- _missing him,_ or--"

Steve just looks at him. He takes back the ice cream again as Bucky sputters on.

"Oh, come on, just -- they all knew me, or they knew Jack Bachmann, which is what I went by back then. Me and Sam used to make a name for ourselves. Won competitions, showed up pretty much anyone who thought they were better than us. Word spread about the split and suddenly guys were lining up just to try to prove they were better than him."

Steve stares at him generously, lips closing around another spoonful of ice cream. "And were they?"

Bucky just takes the bucket indignantly back. "At least I got some fresh dick out of it."

"Nice," Steve says blandly. "How's that for a euphemism?"

"Just call them dates."

"A fuck buddy is not a date."

"Some of these were legitimate relationships! Why do you insist on making this vulgar?"

"I'll believe it when I see it."

Bucky waves an impatient hand. "Believe what you want. I'm trying to tell you I still go, _to dance_ , usually with Natasha. I'm taking a break from--"

"Dating," Steve says dryly.

"Whatever," Bucky says, "so you don't have to worry about -- I know it's--" he gestures again. "Heartbreak, or whatever. It's just to dance. It's been a while since me and Nat have both been in town, and I could use the break."

Steve's fighting a smile, suddenly. "Then you should go. Don't worry about me."

"I'm trying to say you should come, Rogers."

Steve looks at him, surprised, but then he looks away again. "Ah. I dunno."

"What's stopping you? I know you never learned, but--"

"I learned," Steve says quietly.

It's Bucky who looks surprised, now. "When?" 

"Peggy taught me to slow dance during the war, but then Natasha taught me, uh, agility when she was trying to train me how to utilize momentum in combat."

"Agility."

"Yeah. You know…"

"She made you do ballet."

Steve blinks hard. "She didn't _make me_ \-- no. I would say--"

Bucky bursts into laughter.

"--I would say more accurately that -- okay, the _way_ she taught me to move was not unlike dancing. Then we kinda… listen, she kept pushing me to date people, and she said she thought dancing would be a good way--"

But Bucky's inconsolable. Steve frowns and turns away. "Nevermind."

"No," Bucky says around a grin. "No, it's good. She teach you any hip hop, jazz moves, or just stick with ballet?"

"It wasn't ballet."

"Nothing wrong with ballet. That shit's hardcore."

"It was -- okay," he says, when Bucky doesn't stop grinning. "Is it the thought of tights that's doing it?"

"If memory serves, you've sure got the ass for 'em."

"It's not the only thing I've got for 'em," Steve mutters, and this time Bucky grins directly into his ice cream. "I didn't wear tights. Not since the war and never again. I swore off them and I'm sticking to it."

"Sure you are."

"Natasha did push pretty hard on agility, but we covered other areas. Speed, fluidity…" Steve shrugs a little, feigning humility. "If you're asking me if I got that swing, Bucky, I might remember some things."

"Then you're _definitely_ coming."

Steve gives a reluctant smile. "Maybe."

"C'mon, what's the hangup? Kinda hate the idea of you knocking around here by yourself."

"Nah, it's just -- I dunno. After running into Sam yesterday, I'm not so sure I should…"

"Aw, don't worry about that. Sam's got his reasons for keeping his distance, it won't last."

"Whatever they are, I probably shouldn't push the issue. He still go to this place, too?"

"Yeah, but he won't be there tonight. We alternate weeks, we're never there at the same time."

"Whoa." Steve looks at him. "Really? Was the break-up that bad?"

"No. It's more that he's seeing someone who's not my biggest fan. The less time we spend together…"

"Oh," Steve says, frowning. "Do they not know you work together?"

"He does, but that's unavoidable. He's a little wary of the fact that we used to spend a lot of time social time together. Cut right back on that."

"Jesus. Who is this guy?"

"Name's Marcus. Lawyer, civilian. Nice enough guy. Knows about the Enhanced world and all that, but..." Bucky shakes his head, prodding at the ice cream. "I dunno."

"You don't think he's right for Sam?"

Bucky avoids his gaze again. "Doesn't matter what I think. More to the point, Sam won't be there. Me, Nat, Maria Hill -- she dances with Sam, but goes every week regardless. I think she derives some kind of joy out of stepping on the riffraff who think they're good enough for her, she'll keep you company if you don't want to dance."

Steve knocks loose knuckles against the counter, smiling a bit. All at once he feels to be bursting with an energy he doesn't dare try to name. "I dunno. Maybe I oughtta stay here and wallow with my strawberry heartbreak ice cream."

"Aw, come on," Bucky mutters. "What would your ex-boyfriend think?"

"Maybe he'd rather spend his night off chasing down some 'fresh dick' and is kinda just indulging me."

"God, I regret saying that."

"Sorry -- fuck buddies. Is that what we decided on?"

Bucky glares at him. Steve grins, shy, but doesn't meet his eye.

"Come tonight," Bucky says thinly, "and I'll _show_ you the kind of guy I used to date. They're nice enough -- a few of them, anyway. It'll be better than wondering about it. It doesn't have to be a thing." 

"Mm," Steve says, nodding. "That's what I want out of a 'fun night out.' To meet the men who've replaced me throughout the years."

"They didn't _replace_ you." 

"To painstakingly evaluate all the ways they're better than me--"

"They're not!"

"It's gonna be great for my heartbreak," he deadpans, looking Bucky dead in the face.

"Are you coming or not?" Bucky half-yells at him.

"I think at this point I have to, or you'll knock me out and drag me there unconscious."

Bucky just shoves him the ice cream. Steve takes it indulgently, too much caught up in peculiar tension to notice the taste anyway. "Good. Asshole."

"What about your dislocated shoulder?"

"I located it," Bucky says dryly.

"So on top of everything else, you think you're funny now."

"I was always funny," Bucky mutters, and Steve smiles again. "Listen. I'm hopped up on painkillers. My mobility's fine. I'm cleared for the field, for God's sake, it's gotta be stable enough to dance. It might twinge a bit, but I won't put Natasha into any full-body dips. I should be fine."

"Well, alright then," Steve says. He scoops the last bit of ice cream out of the bucket. "Not like I have somewhere else to be."

"That's what I'm saying." Bucky nudges him cheerfully. "We can take a cab if you want. I usually just take the subway."

"Subway's fine."

"Good. Just don't get lost. You need a credit chit to ride and they won't give you one without registering you in the system."

"Buddy system," Steve says, nodding. "Got it."

"Don't sound so glum. You can calm down enough to be a follower for an hour."

"Well, you know, I'm used to it. SHIELD wouldn't let me go out alone for the first while either. They did turn out to be fascists, but..."

"Oh, come on."

"So I'm your _ward_."

"You done?"

Steve just smiles at his hands. Bucky tosses the empty ice cream bucket into the sink. "Well, that went fast. You warm up to it at all?"

"Hell no." Steve cringes. "You eat this? I gotta brush my teeth."

And if Bucky throws the empty bucket at him as he turns to go, Steve catches it just as fast. Then they stare at each other across the room, Steve lingering a second just to watch him smile.

  


***

  


The jazz band is good -- Steve can hear that much from all the way out on the street. It's a smaller ensemble than he expected, but a competent one; a trumpet, trombone, clarinet, bass, and drums handily fill the room. From the second the sound hits him, Steve feels more at ease than he has in four days. A hundred years later, this sound has survived -- just like the pair of them.

"Busy," Bucky shouts over his shoulder as they elbow through the crowd. "Resurgence in interest lately. There were centennial festivals in Chicago and Philadelphia a few years ago that turned annual as more people got turned onto swing. I think there was one here a couple months ago, too, but I was busy that weekend." Bucky pauses, briefly, to grin widely and lean into a back-clapping hug with some guy in the crowd before straightening again and nodding Steve along. "Don't mind me," Bucky says, not bothering to introduce them. "I like to keep my ear to the ground. Always building a network. You never know who's seen or heard something that comes in handy later on."

"I thought you came here to unwind," Steve says in his ear.

"Work never ends, Steve, you know that." Maybe the atmosphere's affected Bucky a little already, because he gives Steve a wink and the kind of sloping, careless grin Steve hasn't seen in years. "Some people like to dress up like it's the Great Gatsby or something. I don't pretend to get that, but I guess no one else remembers what it was actually like."

They break through the crowd. Bucky gestures him toward a table where a woman's sitting tall and elegant, holding a martini in one hand and pointedly ignoring a man of approximately middle age who seems to be trying to woo her into dancing. Steve's distracted instead by the wide-open dance floor and the half-dozen couples or so who seem to be gracing it. A peer around from high on his toes suggests the bar is usually full of tables, now propped along the walls.

"This place only do dancing Mondays?" Steve asks.

"Huh?" Bucky looks up from greeting another passerby. "Oh, yeah. Music most nights, but less often dancing. Food's good. They don't serve tonight though."

"Is this where you play?" Steve asks, but Bucky's far from paying attention.

"Let me work the room a while," he says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. "I'd drag you with me but I'd have to pull your name through the mud the whole time to make you sound uninteresting, deflect attention." He gives Steve a fleeting once-over, as though unconvinced he could manage the task. "Go say hello to Maria, why don't you? Looks like she could use a reprieve from that lecher."

Steve looks again where Bucky's pointing and realizes the woman sitting at the table _is_ Maria; Steve hadn't recognized her with so much grey in her hair. "Jesus," Steve mutters. "Okay, yeah. What are you--"

But Bucky's already gone, elbowing through to another mess of people who shout his fake name as he approaches. Steve sighs. It's a decidedly odd feeling to wish he could go home and tell Bucky everything about what he himself is like -- sociable, confident, almost unfathomably so. In a dark button-down, a little open at the collar but not so much to expose his graft, he's downright sexy. In so many ways, he's the man Bucky -- _his_ Bucky -- was sure he'd never be again.

There's no sense dwelling on it; there's no telling the Bucky he left behind a damn thing. The fact of it pulls at him, leaves his stomach in freefall. For a second, standing alone in the crowd, ten feet away from him, he misses him again.

He takes the opportunity afforded to him by the end of the song and a milling crowd to push his way over to Maria's table. He realizes as he steps forward that he has no idea if she's been briefed on the fact that he's back, but the smile spreading over her face at the sight of him seems to answer his question.

She stands, elegant in flowing slacks, and extends a ready arm toward him. "Hey there, stranger," she says, grinning wide.

It's the first hug he's had on this side of time without anyone trying to pull his face off. He's surprised by what a relief it is; how good it is to see Maria, for the first time in so long. "God," Steve says. "How are you? I haven't seen you since…" 

Maria cocks her head, smiling slick. "A while," Steve says instead, embarrassed of himself.

"Tell me about it." Maria slinks back down into her chair, martini glass going right back in hand like it's where it belongs. Steve pointedly asks the man who's been bothering her if this seat's taken, looming over him until he goes away. "I'm doing well," Maria tells him, smiling as she watches the guy take off. "I can't complain. Hey -- ten years SHIELD-free."

"About time." Steve smiles, genuinely glad, leaning over his forearms on the table so they can hear each other over the music. "I heard you're on the -- whatever board with Bucky."

She exhales in surprise. "Haven't heard that name in a long time. Yeah, Sam poached me pretty much off the top."

"He knows talent when he sees it."

"Damn right." Maria's face is more lined, but only by joy. As she smiles at Steve, she exudes a feeling of warmth and competence, intimidating and welcoming in equal turns.

"Bucky said you dance," Steve says, beyond glad for her company.

"Picked it up a while back," Maria says. "Used to come here with my wife."

Steve's face collapses into surprise, but before he can offer congratulations Maria shakes her head and waves her naked left hand in front of him. "Used to."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

Maria waves him off. "It worked out. Sam came available as a dance partner at around the same time."

"Yeah, I know all about that."

"So you're caught up."

"Yes and no. I assume you're caught up on… me."

"Yes and no," she says, and sips her martini as Steve smiles at her. "Eighteen years without a beat, huh?"

"Yeah," Steve says. His voice became soft enough to get drowned out; Maria cocks her ear closer over the sudden swell of the band. "Eighteen years still sounds unseemly to me."

"It's unseemly to me and I lived it."

Steve smiles at her. The companionship is welcome, offered here with no nonsense -- but he wonders all the ways Maria's assessed him without his having noticed. He wonders if the way she appraises his shoulders with a flick of her eyes means she's sizing him up; if her preoccupation with her martini is just to give Steve a focal point so his eyes will leave hers long enough for her to evaluate him more carefully.

Yeah… that's probably happening. He must've learned more from Natasha than he realizes.

The silence starts to fall tense before Steve hears the unmistakable sound of Natasha's laughter beside him. He looks up to see Bucky spinning her away onto the dance floor, the pair of them falling easily into familiar steps. Steve grins, despite himself; watches the pace Bucky sets, the fluidity with which he moves, the way he seems just as competent as Natasha, who's done this for years. It's not quite the way it was before the war -- there's something more about him, a weight he carries with him that throws him around the room in new and noticeable ways. It's like every step he takes, however graceful, is placed with intention, the ones that follow impeccably planned. He is impossibly strategic, improbably passionate.

That ache ebbs back in Steve's chest. Together their partnership is unbeatable, and everyone seems to know it. As the song goes on -- as Bucky and Natasha start to pick up speed, as momentum guides them into seamless transitions that don't seem possible -- the floor starts to part amid whooping encouragement, giving them more room to move. 

"They're pretty good together," Maria says. Steve realizes he's been holding his breath.

"Yeah," he says on a prolonged exhale. "Yeah. I can see that."

Maria cocks her head at him. "Hmm."

Steve raises his hands to cover his face, then drags them through his hair. "I don't want to talk about it."

"That bad, huh?"

Steve looks her dead in the eye and puts on his best impression of authority. "It's not a thing."

Maria only grins, then drains the rest of her martini with sudden flourish. "Come on," she says, standing with a hand outstretched. "I'm out a partner this week, you'll have to stand in."

Steve looks at her, then at Bucky and Natasha. "I don't think so."

Maria just clucks her tongue and pulls at Steve's hand. He supposes he should be thankful that she trusts who he is enough to be in close proximity, but instead he just becomes a dead weight in his chair. 

"I'm trying to distract you," she says pointedly. "Otherwise you're just going to sit there and moon all night. Take it from an expert -- that's not going to work out for anyone, least of all you. We told him to find you some fun. Isn't that why he invited you?"

Steve blinks. "Maybe, but--"

Maria cha-chas persistently in front of him. "Bossa nova's a great warmup."

"You don't need to tell me about bossa novas."

"Prove it." She turns in place then resumes her four-beat step, looking so beyond delighted to be moving that Steve finds himself smiling just watching her. "Show me what you got, Captain, let's go."

"I don't--" Steve is distracted. He lets himself watch Bucky long enough to see him chatting with surrounding admirers, Natasha in arm, even as they engage in impressive footwork despite the slower number. 

Suddenly, he's resolved. He rolls to his feet and takes the hand Maria offers. "I'm not gonna be miserable," he says firmly, and lets her lead him onto the dance floor.

"That's the spirit." She wraps an arm around his shoulder, pacing him comfortably. He reads her movements best he can. From the delighted surprise on her face, he must be doing better than he expects. 

"You're pretty good at this," she remarks.

"I had a good teacher," he says, just as Bucky sails Natasha past them. 

"Not bad!" Bucky shouts impressively. He spins Natasha out and she extends just far enough to pull at Steve's collar and plant a kiss on his cheek before Bucky pulls her away again. 

Natasha's laughing, Bucky grinning wide, and Steve stares at them openly, his feet dragging. Maria kicks them into motion again. He finds the beat reluctantly, but can't seem to keep his eyes away. Those dancing around them seem to actually cheer. Bucky and Natasha's theatrics seem at least as much the draw of the evening as is the music and ambiance. 

"Boy," Steve says, stomach churning. He forces himself to focus; takes the lead a second, pulling Maria into a tight and skilled spin. "He usually so boisterous?"

"Just the last few years," Maria says, smiling wide. She seems openly delighted by his hidden competence; lets him keep the lead. It forces Steve to concentrate, at least; he's not sure that's a coincidence. "He and Sam used to light up this place something else. Whether they meant to or not, they made it a pretty popular gay destination bar. Revenue for this place went up hugely, so the owners embraced it. Everyone wanted to see the crazy athletic all-male dance pair tearing up the floor every week like they were the only people here. They even got nicknamed the Captains America, if you can imagine that." She winks at him, roguish. "After they ended things I think the owners of this place got concerned popularity would go down, but they're pretty popular apart, too. Not that they go home with anyone anymore, but you know. Their suitors like to dream."

Steve blinks. "Do they... not?"

"Well, Sam's engaged."

"Sam's _engaged_?"

"Did no one tell you?" 

"Bucky said Sam had a boyfriend."

Maria gives an unreadable smile. "Well, they're engaged, to be married. Even if Jack has a hard time admitting it." Maria shrugs and turns into a dance move, as though trying to deflect from the topic with her bodily form. 

Steve's not so easily distracted. "And you like this guy?"

"Marcus? He's great. Don't let Jack tell you otherwise. He comes out half the time Sam's here -- regales us with his latest legal horror stories, keeps Natasha company when she can't find anyone she likes enough to dance with. He doesn't dance and won't be coaxed into it, but he likes to watch Sam move."

"Bucky says Marcus doesn't like him."

She seems to take a second to sort through what she can actually say out loud. "I get the sense it's a long story," she says finally, hand brushing at his shoulder. "And even if I did have the details, it still wouldn't be mine to tell. But suffice it to say the feeling is very mutual."

Steve starts to open his mouth to follow up, but Maria clicks her tongue and forces him off his beat with a concerted push at his shoulder. He pulls to a stop but finds her gone from his grip, being led away by Bucky of all people -- and before Steve can sort out what to do with himself, he's being swept away by Natasha as though there'd been no interruption at all.

"Hi there," Natasha says, cheerful. Steve blinks up, confused, and sees Bucky throwing Maria handily away as the number picks up, Bucky grinning, Maria laughing loud.

"Hi," Steve says, frowning at her distractedly. Natasha pushes at him, forcing him to tempo as Maria had done, and _this_ is familiar; she seems to have remembered how he knows to move. "How'd you do that?" he asks.

"Practice." She places her hands against Steve in a way that guides his movements, and it's just the way it was, five or twenty-three years ago, back when she was teaching him to dance. "You hanging in there?"

"I'm fine," Steve says automatically, and for a second it's even true; he's gotten so caught up activity that he's forgotten the ache in his chest. Maybe Bucky had the right idea in inviting him here after all. "You and Bucky sure know how to move."

"Years of practice," she says with a quirk of the mouth. The gesture's so horribly familiar that for a second Steve feels like he's home again. "Jack could coax a dance out of anyone, though."

"He always could."

"You and he used to go dancing, right? Back in the '30s?"

Steve shakes his head, lips pursed. Dancing with Natasha is senselessly easy; he finds himself being bolder, taking her into a spin with a hand at her hip, reveling in the way she laughs like she's pleasantly surprised by him. "Watched him sometimes," Steve says as he pulls her back up. "He had too much energy for me. Couldn't keep him down once he got started. Plus, you know… two men dancing in the 1930s was a little different from the 2030s."

"Right."

"Guess he and Sam made a point of breaking that barrier down."

She shrugs, masking and nonchalant. She spins him around until he finds his feet again; her back bends easy under his hand as he takes initiative back for himself. "They goaded each other into it," Natasha says as Steve leans her over his knee. "I'm not sure it was intentional."

"Sounds like they were good together."

Natasha narrows her eyes at him as she's pulled upright again. "Are you fishing?"

"Just gathering intel."

"Hmm." 

"Can you blame me? Put yourself in my shoes. Nobody's telling me anything."

"We're telling you more than we should," Natasha counters, pulling Steve closer, placing his hand in the small of her back. "Jack in particular is bending protocol until it breaks. And he never bends protocol."

"Bucky never bends protocol? Since when?"

"Stop saying that name," Natasha says, razor sharp.

"Since when is _Jack_ a follower?" Steve mutters, clenching his teeth around the name.

"It's not being a follower if the protocols are his."

He hadn't thought of that. "Are there protocols on me?"

Natasha shrugs and pulls Steve after her. He follows readily and realizes, suddenly, that the crowd parts for them as they move, too. He'd love to be able to chalk the effect up to Natasha alone, but the whoops offered in their direction are hardly unwelcome. 

"Between us?" she says.

"Sure," says Steve.

"He spent too long thinking about you coming back not to have it planned to the letter by the time you actually did."

Steve cocks his head; lets her spin out then pulls her in, wraps her in his arms, dipping her to the side and then out again. "And?" he says, when she's returned to him.

"And most of it went down the tubes in a New York minute," Natasha says. "But you know how he is about his instincts."

Steve clenches his jaw, hard. "I'm not sure what kind of impression you have--"

"Are you saying I'm _wrong_?"

"I just know what I've been living the last few days. I wouldn't say instinct's been playing too hard into -- whatever it is."

"You sure about that?"

"As sure as I am about anything."

Natasha narrows her eyes at him, and suddenly she's taken initiative again. She pulls too hard and Steve doesn't expect it, he can't correct; he's left stumbling, overstepping, trying to stand straight. 

A hand catches at his arm, pulling him to standing. Steve straightens, grasping at the arm that caught him--

He's left standing face-to-face with Bucky.

Tension blossoms full, immediate, inexplicable. The song ends. Its final note prolongs -- resonates between them, amplified by tension. Bucky's flushed, his brow glistening, a gentle fold at its centre like he's not sure what to do. The authority in Bucky's grip at his arm makes Steve flush a little, but the hand's gone as fast it grasped; the note cuts off as he withdraws, as though the music compelled him.

Applause rings through the bar, breaking like a wave, but their gaze holds firm. Bucky's barely touched him since the farmer's market and maybe Steve sees why -- sees something in his eyes Bucky doesn't seem to intend. 

"Sorry," Bucky says, or Steve thinks he does -- from the ambient noise, Steve has to read the word on his lips. Somewhere beside them, Natasha sweeps Maria up in her arms and the two of them spin away as swiftly as if they'd never been there. 

Bucky's tongue darts out to moisten his lips, eyes still fixed on Steve. Steve feels the impulse to chase it, to set his mouth against his; winds up breathing a laugh, forcing his eyes up to Bucky's again. 

"Don't be sorry," says Steve. He flexes his arm, registering where Bucky had grabbed it. "Thanks for that. I, uh -- I'm not used to moving like that without having a target."

Bucky nods. He doesn't move. Steve wants to step closer; gets the strange impression Bucky wants him to, too.

But this isn't a thing. They haven't been together a long time. 

"Better sit this one out," Steve says, forcing a smile. He's going to make it to safety. He nods, steps away-- 

Bucky's hand snaps out and grabs at his wrist before his heel can even land. 

Steve turns back to him, cautious. Bucky looks solid, sincere; his eyes spark with something familiar, something tempting. There's a scrutiny there, too -- like he's looking at Steve just to figure something out. His jaw ticks as he holds Steve back, like he's parsing his regrets before he even has them. 

Steve cocks his head and waits. God help him -- God help them both -- Steve would wait for Bucky to the end of the world. "One," Bucky finally says, or Steve thinks he does; he can't quite hear it over the band's first chord. He reads it on his lips, those damnable lips, and it's a slow song, too; Steve knows he should pull away. This isn't a thing. That's what's best, in the end; that's what they agreed. The only problem is that Steve doesn't care what's best. All he wants is to hold Bucky close to him, to feel his heart beat in his chest. He aches for how bad he wants it, wants _him_ , wants the heat of him near.

Yet he's rooted to the spot, brought to conflict by the sands of time. Through the opening few notes of the song, neither of them moves. Bucky's giving Steve the chance to walk away, Steve knows, but he wouldn't know where to turn, or how. Bucky's got him fully ensnared by two fingers at his wrist and Steve is distracted only by the flush in his ears.

The melody rises. Indecision breaks. Bucky blinks, lets go of Steve's wrist--

Drawn by its retreat, Steve steps into his space.

A draw strikes between them, hot and magnetic. Steve's hands move naturally, one grasping at Bucky's in the air. The other wraps possessively at his hip and it's almost too easy, how they find each other, here in the swell.

Memory leads them. It's the most touch Steve's had from Bucky in days. Dalliances in their kitchen a century ago didn't hold a candle to this. Now they're old, or something like it. Their positioning is awkward and hard to get right. Steve's pretty sure he's not supposed to lead, but Bucky's fingers curl at the back of his neck, so casual as to make it seem natural. 

For all it seems intimate, Steve realizes this is probably what Bucky does now. This is just how he dances -- familiar, personal and bold. For all he's found reason, Steve's still distracted by it; he lets the lead lapse as heat pools a little lower than it should. Their feet to slow to a shuffle, but Bucky doesn't seem to mind; he doesn't take it over. His hand relaxes in Steve's grasp and they reposition -- Bucky's forearm rests against the breadth of Steve's shoulder, and there's that pull again, that drawing force: commanding and firm.

Steve leans in close, setting his lips by Bucky's ear. "This," he says, gently mocking, "is an Elvis Costello song."

Steve feels Bucky's smile where he's slotted his jaw against Steve's. "I know," he says, breath hot. "Every damn week I come in here and they're trying to pass off Costello alongside Ellington."

It feels right to joke, even as Steve thinks he might drown in nostalgia. Steve slides his hand further along the small of Bucky's back, holding him closer, courting catastrophe. "I mean, the way influences work--"

"Don't start with your art crit bullshit," Bucky murmurs. His fingers reach across the back of his neck, over his hairline; they bend there, dig in a little, as though to hold him in place. "I already argue about this more than I'd like."

"It is a blues number."

"Not a romantic one! They make it seem--"

Bucky cuts off, the words lodging audibly in his throat. It _is_ romantic, Steve thinks -- that's the whole problem. Awkwardness buds between them and then is overcome; the fact of this, whatever they're doing, this thing that's not a thing, is more powerful than its discomfort. Steve lets his face rest against Bucky's; lets desire coil hot in him, tempting and tugging. Bucky's lips brush the shell of Steve's ear and Steve leans into it out of impulse. "Sorry," Bucky mutters. He adjusts a little, but it's hard with their hips flush to get much space. "Hard to override instincts when I got some blond blockhead in my arms."

"That a common affliction?"

A sound rolls low in his throat. Steve feels it more than he hears it. "It's on-brand."

Their chests lean flush, then drift again. He smells so good, so _him_ ; it's everything Steve has not to drop his face against the crook of Bucky's neck to taste the sweat off his skin. "So this isn't a thing."

"Overdue," Bucky murmurs. "That's all. Finally come dancing after all that." 

They move together without thinking, shifting closer still. Steve can feel Bucky swallow and turns toward it, feeling the need to breathe him in. "Yeah," Steve says, before a wave of desire hits him hard. He brushes his nose across the slight stubble of Bucky's jaw. "For old time's sake, right?"

Bucky doesn't say anything, but neither does he move away. Steve rests his forehead at his temple, loving him; missing him. Closure, he thinks; that's all this is. Just one dance, for old time's sake. 

Their feet shuffle slow, a little behind the beat. Hand at Steve's neck, Bucky's pressing Steve toward him as much as Steve is leaning in. Steve's fingers itch to close in the fabric of Bucky's shirt, the way they would when Bucky used to sway against him in the safety of their home. A sense of raw need prevailed in those clandestine kitchen dances, and Steve aches to think of them, face pressed to Bucky's here. He's overcome, finds himself seeking something he can't name -- brushes his lips along Bucky's jaw, hopeful, helpless. All it would take for Bucky to meet his lips would be to turn his face just an increment, just the barest of degrees--

Incredibly, he does.

Steve's breath breaks with the shock of it, and it wakes Bucky up; it breaks them apart. In a fraction of a second, Bucky's away from him, not a fragment, but a leap. His hand is fisted in the front of Steve's shirt and the room is suddenly so bracingly cold that Steve just looks at him, shocked and abandoned, shiver snaking hard up his spine.

Bucky looks just as devastated. He looks at Steve up and down, as though he's seeing him for the first time, almost disbelieving. Like he'd been lost in something he didn't think was real.

"God," Steve sees Bucky mouth. "This was a mistake." Then without another look at him, Bucky lets go of Steve's shirt and turns toward the bar, pushing quickly through the crowd. Steve reaches out to catch his wrist as he retreats, but Bucky slips away easily, graceful as anything, and a woman twirls past him; Bucky's put a barrier between them, using the floor as his stage.

A man follows after her, cutting Steve off for good.

Up on the stage, the band plays on.

  



	8. Sleep Would Not Come

  


Someone's pulling at Steve's hand.

He swats behind him, trying to shoo whoever it is away, but Natasha just tugs firmer at his bicep. "You know as well as I do he's shut down now, there's nothing you do. Come on."

Steve lets himself get pulled off the dance floor. His eyes stay fixed on Bucky's back until the last glimpse of his shoulderblade slips out of view, and then there's nothing left to do but to collapse into a chair, hands over his face.

"Okay," Natasha says, on the other side of the din. "I miscalculated."

Steve re-emerges, incredulous. "You think?"

"I'm sorry," she says. It's too soft to hear over the music, but she looks like she means it when he reads it on her lips. 

That makes it all worse. Suddenly Steve wishes he was anywhere but here. "What--" he begins, but he's not sure what his question is. What was Natasha trying to pull? What was _Bucky_ trying to pull?

What was Steve trying to pull?

"I was trying to prove a point," Natasha says, intuiting his question.

"Which was what, exactly?"

The sympathetic fall of Natasha's shoulders tells Steve there's something she's not saying.

"Okay," Steve says, eyes pinching. "You know what? I'm gonna go talk to Bucky directly." But as Steve stands, Bucky comes into view: leaning forward on his barstool, chatting up some guy, his mouth curving in some familiar, seductive swagger. As Steve watches, the guy -- all muscle, no substance -- leans in and mutters something into Bucky's ear.

He has a hand on his knee. Bucky's not taking it off.

"Oh," Steve says emptily. The world suddenly turns muted.

Natasha turns and cocks her head at Bucky across the bar. "Oh, come _on._ "

Head pounding, Steve closes his eyes and sits back down again. When he looks up again, Natasha's skillfully placed herself in his line of vision. 

"Yeah," he mutters. His throat feels like sandpaper. "I was right to think this was a mistake. Listen, I'm gonna go. Tell Bucky I... well, at least tell him to keep it down when he and his _date_ get in. I don't really want to hear it."

"Steve..."

But if Natasha says anything else, Steve's not around to hear it. He's already heading through the crowd direct to the door. As he bursts into the street, he runs both hands furiously through his hair. He feels feverish, hot and cold both at once, the sweat on his skin making the cool air turn jagged. 

Inside, the band transitions into a jaunty rendition of _Chicago_ \-- exit music, in a sense. Steve can't remember which way the subway is. He also -- goddamnit -- doesn't have a fucking credit chit to pay for the subway with. He looks left and then right, trying to get his bearings, but he's moneyless and alone, and--

"Steve."

Well... okay. Maybe he's being a little dramatic.

"Can you point me toward Brooklyn?" Steve says, turning. He knows how pathetic he sounds.

"Come on." Natasha pulls a shawl over her shoulders and nods him down the sidewalk. "I'll take you home." 

Steve hesitates, but for the first time, he sees a bit of a soft edge to her as they set down the street. He could tell her to go back inside, but truth be told, Natasha's company has always been the best balance when he's stuck between craving intimacy and wanting to be alone. "Home," he says. "To yours?"

"To Barnes'."

Something molten fills him to hear Bucky's real name. He feels defensive of it, like after three days without hearing it, it suddenly belongs only to Steve. "I don't know if that's such a--"

"He'll want you there. Trust me."

Natasha's instincts haven't exactly served him well so far. "Yeah," Steve says. "Well, listen, now that I know the way, I can make it on my own. Thanks for pointing me in the right direction."

"We're in Manhattan, Steve. You can't walk the whole way."

"Not with that attitude."

Natasha smirks at him, meeting his challenge. "Okay. You got a key on you?"

Steve feels his expression falter. "No," he says. "Guess I'd foolishly assumed me and Bucky wouldn't be leaving separately."

Natasha nudges him with an arm. "You really have to get out of the habit of using that name."

"It's his name."

"Not anymore."

Steve heaves a sigh and shoves his hands in his pockets as they start walking slow. "So you gonna break me in, or what?"

"No. Don't tell Barnes I did it, but I copied his keys a long time ago. I'm not as spry as I used to be. I can't just break into a sixth-floor apartment on demand all the time."

Steve looks at her, smiling a little. "Sure you can."

"Well, I can." Natasha wrinkles her nose. "I just don't like to."

Steve lets the comfort of Natasha's familiarity make soft the harsh edges of this unfamiliar world. It seems like everywhere Steve looks, reality glares at him in unwelcome technicolour. It's tempting to smash the flashing hair product advertisements to bits as he walks by. If they've figured out enough about him to know he might need it, why don't they know they're courting death by presuming to know anything about him in the first place? 

Natasha, meanwhile, averts her face every time they pass a screen. Steve tries to figure out how to emulate it best he can.

"I hate this," he says eventually.

"Yeah." Natasha exhales. "You'll get used to it."

But the silence turns sideways, pulling at Steve's guts in some subtle, twisting way. She's hiding something. 

"Natasha."

"Yeah?"

"Why isn't anyone... setting me up? Through the Federation, the way SHIELD did the first time?"

She watches the sidewalk a while, parsing her words. "There's a board meeting on Wednesday," she finally says. "We're gonna figure out what to do with you then. In the meantime, you're safe with Barnes."

"So it's a security issue."

"Not about more than what you already know. There's a remote possibility that someone will recognize you from twenty years ago; _then_ we'll have a security issue. Right now the bigger concern, believe it or not, is that there's a division across the board on how best to respond to you." She waves a hand, seeming annoyed with her own equivocation. "I don't want to get into it now. You'll see at the meeting."

"Bucky said there's a lot of infighting on the Board. Is this that?"

"It's not really… infighting. There are legitimate concerns on both sides."

"What -- sides? What are the options?"

She frowns at him, as though surprised that he doesn't already know. "Well," she says carefully, "either you stay, and live out your life on this side of time. Or we try to figure out a way to send you back."

Steve stares. Bucky _had_ said something like that, but it'd been overshadowed by other concerns. Suddenly it seems like a pressing issue. "Okay. What's involved if I did want to go back?"

"Well, first thing, all the information needs to be aired. We're trying to ethically inform you of the facts--"

" _Ethically_ inform me."

"--and the rest of the board needs to be informed of your presence, obviously. Right now only a few of us know. We're trying to avoid bias." 

"Throwing my weird time travel reality on people without notice avoids bias _how_ , exactly?"

"We've spent a lot of time over the past twenty years talking in hypotheticals," Natasha says. "What happens if Steve comes back, what's our stance on using Enhanced powers for personal ends, what's our stance on using artificial facsimiles of Enhanced powers for personal ends... at this point, UFoE already has a lot of those ideas written in our constitution. The big debates are over. Now it's a matter of throwing the issue on the table and applying them as we agreed."

That's a lot to take in. "Is it possible to artificially recreate the effects of Enhanced powers?"

Natasha hems and haws. "Yes and no. Definitely not officially. If we understand the physics behind it, usually -- according to Tony -- it's at least theoretically possible to replicate. Unfortunately, if we can replicate it, so can the enemy, so we generally don't advance the technology. It's dangerous, especially on wide-reaching field effects, like..." She gestures at him, pursing her lips. "As you can imagine, time travel is among the more dangerous effects to try to recreate. We have to take into account global ethics, national ethics, humanitarian ethics, scientific ethics… and then on top of that, we still don't know if it's possible."

"But if -- I mean, that kid who sent me here in the first place--"

Natasha looks up at him with surprise again. 

Steve gets it at once. "You never found him," he says with dread.

"Not for lack of trying. I will be honest with you, Steve -- I think Hydra found him, took him, and broke him down, based on what else I've heard about disappearances over the years. That doesn't bode well in a lot of respects, but without that person's cooperation, we won't even know how to reverse what he did to you."

Steve feels his heart start to sink. "You're saying there's no hope of going back."

"I'm saying the hope is complicated." Steve runs his hands over his face as she goes on. "The Board learned a long time ago that our discussion on this topic is best consolidated to weekly meetings. If it seems impossible to you that we could make a decision like this, it's been our reality for a number of years. There's nothing about this situation we haven't discussed countless times already. I think your presence will change people's minds a bit, but the threads of conversation will be the same. People will be entering this situation with their opinions already formed, whether they know it or not."

"So there are people in favour of sending me back."

Natasha seems hesitant to admit it, but finally she nods. "But assuming it's even possible, there's still a lot of risk in trying to punch a hole through time. Support for the idea doesn't mean--"

"It's still on the table."

"It's an option." Natasha nods, but there's something withdrawn to it. Steve knows at once he's not going to get anything more than that. 

"So in the meantime," Steve says, "you just want me to lie in wait while you bureaucrats to figure out what to do with me."

"It's thirty-six hours," she says indulgently. "I believe in you."

"Do I get a say in this?"

"Of course you do. It's just not the only say. There are people who will take your preferences into account, but if the board decides the risk of going back is incompatible -- I'm sorry to be the one to tell you -- you'll be stuck here anyway."

Steve's eyelids flicker with annoyance. "That's--"

"It's not just about you." When Natasha looks at him, it's actually with _pity._ Of all the things that've happened tonight, Steve might hate that the most. "It's not fair that your life was derailed, Steve. I'm sorry it happened. I can't imagine what it's like having to go through all this again. But we won't risk derailing the lives of innumerable others on the off-chance we can get you home, unless we collectively decide that the benefits outweigh the risks."

"Twelve people is enough for a collective decision?"

"Well, it's a lot better than a committee of one." She gestures at him, then crosses her arms again, like she's looking to end this line of conversation.

Steve shakes his head. He just can't throw the feeling that something about this is really off. "It sounds to me like the board's already reached a decision."

"Stop fishing."

He holds out his hands defensively. "I'm just doing what you would do."

"I know it's hard--"

"I don't understand why you can't tell me what I need to know now."

There's a long pause before she answers. "I'm trying not to step on Jack's toes," she says slowly, enunciating each word as though to deliver it with great care. "He's supposed to be the one telling you what you need to know. It's not my place to share."

Steve huffs through his nose. "Everything is like pulling fucking teeth with him."

"I know. And you know that about him too, Steve. I thought maybe it'd be different this time, but..."

Natasha never finishes her thought. Steve decides he doesn't want to hear it anyway. 

They don't speak again until the train comes. When it finally does, Steve collapses unceremoniously into a seat and buries his head in his hands, breathing heavily into them. Natasha sits down beside him in such a casual way that it actually strikes him as odd. Steve glances behind him to see two guys in matching baseball caps standing at a pole, tapping at personal devices and pointedly not paying attention to her as she's not paying attention to them. 

"So are you guys just always on now?" Steve mutters, turning away.

"Weren't we always?" she asks, casting her eyes over the slouch of his back. Even if they cause intrigue, apparently these guys aren't worthy of her vigilance. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"He really missed you, you know."

"It's just…" Steve shakes his head, hands still splayed over his mouth. "He was just mine."

"I know."

"Four days. Four days ago, he was..." But he can't even say it; the words lodge in his throat. "He woke up in my bed four days ago, in _our_ bed, the one we bought together. He made me breakfast, and then…" And then they'd made out in the shower until Steve had fallen to his knees, and he'd made good use of his mouth until Bucky's knuckles went white at the tile. 

The passion and the weight of it, water and heat -- it was the kind of thing that defies words. Instead, he gestures. "And now it's -- nothing. It's dust."

"It's not dust."

"I just -- you know, I get it. It's been eighteen years. A generation's time. Things are different, I get that. But this thing keeps happening to me where I wake up and Bucky's not there. Every time I show up to something, he's just out of my reach." He shakes his head. "Been awhile since he's wound up in a stranger's lap just to avoid me, though. For a second in there it really felt like 1936."

Natasha purses her lips. "Well…"

Steve stares, dread rooting.

"I don't know if this makes it better or not, but he's actually been chasing that guy... for a while?"

He stares at her, waiting for the joke, but then he realizes she's actually serious. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"It -- on and off. He has this reputation--"

"No, stop. I've heard enough about his conquests."

"I mean, Jack's really the one who's sought after."

"Oh, for f--" He leans forward on his knees, elbows digging hard, looking at Natasha from behind his hands. "Is he really going to bring him home?"

She blinks at him kindly. "I don't think he'd do that to you."

"You don't _think_ he'd do that to me."

"If they leave together, Jack will probably go to his."

Steve rubs his hands vigorously against his eyes and tries to kill the growing ache in his chest. "I don't think I should be staying there anymore."

"It's not that bad."

"It's not comfortable for anyone -- not for me, not for Bucky. Put me up in a hotel, I don't mind paying. I may not have access to my money, but it's somewhere, I'll pay you back."

"You're staying where you are, Steve." 

It's harsh enough to take Steve aback. "Am I -- _permitted_ to leave?" he asks, suspicious.

"Of course you are, but you're also a walking security risk. There are factions that -- look. Barnes can protect you. He knows the drill. You don't."

"I don't need protection."

She gives him an indulgent look. "Then take my word for it that if you leave, it will hurt him. He might be acting like an asshole right now, but if he thinks he drove you away--"

"He is driving me away!"

"He's not meaning to. He's tired, you both are. It's been a long week and it's only Monday. Just go home, relax, get some sleep. Tomorrow you'll talk it through and it'll be fine."

"Talk _what_ through? 'Hey, Bucky, how was your avoidance bone?'"

She cocks an eyebrow. "So you _do_ know what he's doing."

Steve bites his cheek. Natasha stares at him, looking smug. "I haven't seen him in eighteen years," Steve reminds her. "My information's a little out of date."

"What if it wasn't? What would you do if you were right?"

"I would normally try to wait him out. But--"

She pats his shoulder condescendingly. "Then I'm glad we agree you're staying where you are."

Steve studies her angrily. "Then how old is _your_ information?"

"What information?"

"Don't be coy. Just -- apart from my own outdated instincts, what possible cue should I be taking that Bucky's going to come around? For the moment, he seems pretty..."

He trails off, drawn to it when there's a tick in his voice he didn't invite, and Natasha clicks her tongue sympathetically and squeezes at his knee. Steve leans into it, helpless; it's like he thinks every touch might bring him solace from this unknowable world. "Jack's been my brother for twenty years," Natasha says, facing the doors. "I've watched him go through this process of figuring out how to live with your ghost, and now you're flesh and blood in front of him. I've seen you go through the same thing with him too, by the way, and if I'm remembering right -- and I'm pretty sure I am -- you didn't exactly know how to touch him for the first few days, either."

The truth of it hits him like a ton of bricks. Steve leans over himself again, looking her in those crinkled eyes.

"Let him get used to you," she says, and Steve leans automatically into the hand she places at his shoulder. "He can't do that if you're not there."

"I just don't know what to do," he mutters against his hands. "From one moment to the next, I have no idea what to do with myself."

"Neither does he," Natasha says, and then she smiles at him -- a thing without edges. "Maybe the best thing is to be uncertain together."

  


***

  


Natasha turns the key in the door. She props it open, then cocks her head like she's weighing whether or not to say something. "Promise me you won't try to sort this out tonight," she finally says. "It's only gonna cause more problems. Do it tomorrow, okay?"

Steve nods and leans his head against the doorframe. He's too tired to do anything else tonight anyway. "Wanna come in, have a drink or something?"

She imparts a look of sympathy, like she senses his desire not to be alone. "I have to go rescue Maria. She and Sam have been carrying operations on their backs while I've been abroad. She deserves a night off, only now she's on babysitting duty."

"Babysitting -- _Bucky_?"

"He has a tendency to overstretch when he's under stress. We need him at HQ tomorrow, so he can't get--" She cuts off suddenly, eyes flashing up to Steve. "He needs to take it easy if he's going to juggle everything he has going on. Plus tomorrow's inventory day, and that's always--"

"Inventory?"

"At the diner."

The diner. Somehow Steve forgot about that. "That takes extra work?"

"He insists on overseeing it himself. Something about quality assurance. I think it started as an excuse not to spend any more time than necessary with the people he woke up with on Tuesday mornings, but you didn't hear it from me."

"Would he accept help with it?" Steve says, ignoring the latter remark. "I feel like he shouldn't be doing that with his shoulder."

Natasha blinks at him, then shakes her head. "No, he's fine. He's got employees to help, plus a dislocation like that's probably healed up by now. You know Barnes." She offers him a fragile smile. "Go on, get some rest. Take care of that needy dog, I can see his nose in the door."

Steve nods, turning away. "Say goodnight to Maria for me. Tell her I'm sorry to bail, I know she needs a dance partner. Though I guess she has you now."

Natasha gives a flash of a smile that tells him more than she probably wanted it to. 

"Oh?" Steve steps forward again, drawn to it. "You seemed pretty cozy while me and Bucky were…" He waves a hand, but trails off at the look on Natasha's face. 

"We avoid it when we can," she says thinly. "Let's just say you're not the only one going through some things."

Sound sparks unexpected in his throat. He steps forward and grabs Natasha's hand. "I didn't know," he says, a little bewildered. "How long were you--"

She only smiles and shakes her head. "Catch up already, would you? Old news, Rogers."

"Was this before or after her marriage?"

Natasha only squeezes his hand and turns to leave. "Goodnight," she says; then, with a coy smile -- "You know you have no right to still be this beautiful."

He exhales a laugh, surprised by it. "Right back at you. You know you don't look a day over 39."

She laughs, a warm and husky sound, and Steve loves her fiercely; then, quick as anything, she's disappeared down the stairwell and into the night.

  


***

  


Despite his best efforts at inviting unconsciousness, Steve's still awake when Bucky comes home.

Short of suffocating himself with a pillow, he tried about everything else to knock himself out. He'd wallowed on the sofa with ice cream a while, then taken Burrito out after he'd nudged at Steve's leg long enough. Finally he'd picked a particularly thick biography of Nixon off Bucky's shelf, assuming it would bore him to sleep within minutes. All it did was intrigue him into asking the interface to give him a brief overview of the last eighteen years in American politics. 

By then it was one in the morning, and there was still no sign of Bucky. Suddenly all he could think about was Bucky on that dancefloor, grinding against that fridge-shaped oaf who'd dared to put his hand on his leg. Steve's mind became overcome by some absurd visualization -- of the two of them going home together, not here but _there_ ; of the oaf's fifty-first-floor penthouse to which Steve's ambitions could never compare. He thinks of Bucky abandoning Steve in the face of such luxury, the apartment now his to lounge in inadequately.

Fridge-oaf wasn't even really that big. Steve could totally take him in a fight.

By the time Bucky finally gets home, Steve's thrown a pillow over his head out of sheer desperation not to hear anything either way. Naturally, he hears everything; it's hard to miss it, after all, when Burrito scrambles up from where he'd been sleeping beside Steve and noses the bedroom door open to greet him. 

On the small single bed, Steve curls tightly into himself. He feels like a goddamned teenager again. Bucky used to bring women home in those few weeks they'd lived together before Steve had found his nerve and kissed him, and Steve had always set the pillow over his head then too -- desperate to hear nothing, straining to hear everything.

But Bucky seems to be alone. He knocks around, a little unruly, but only makes enough sound for one.

Steve listens until the floorboards creak in the hall. The bedroom door is still open, and it's tempting for Steve to take the pillow off his head and look at him. Part of him wants to face him -- wants Bucky to face him, too. Instead he lies motionless, compelled to it by Natasha's advice or his own mortification, until the door's been pulled closed and Bucky's leaving again.

Steve throws the pillow off his head and stares at the ceiling, furious with himself. Bucky's being an asshole, but Steve's being an idiot. He did try to kiss him, after all -- after _I've moved on_ and _This isn't a thing._ He'd made a point of fucking up, and now Steve's trying to blame him.

The apartment's been still for several minutes by the time Steve gets out of bed. He's struck up a compromise. If Bucky's awake, he'll apologize and leave it there. If he's asleep, he'll come back to bed. No harm done either way.

He rescues a shirt and sweatpants from the top dresser drawer and creeps out into the hall. Light casts from the living room in fractal shards -- a broken threshold, a barrier between worlds. 

Steve hesitates, suddenly. He wonders if he's welcome across it. For the first time since he got here, he feels like an intruder. 

He thinks of turning back. Bucky probably heard the door. He might be waiting, now. Cowardice won't serve him anyway. 

It's just a few words. An apology is all. Only -- what is he sorry for? Is he going to apologize for loving him?

He should definitely go back. He's an idiot for trying. 

He takes a steeling breath and steps into the light. 

Bucky's sitting on the sofa, shirt half-unbuttoned, head tipped back against the sofa's back. A glass of straight whiskey sits on his knee, one of Bucky's hands wrapped tight around it. Steve's struck by it, by him, by his exhaustion -- by the stubble filling the shallows of his cheeks. 

He leans in the entranceway and studies his defeat until, slowly, Bucky's face tilts toward him. His head doesn't leave the back of the sofa. Steve holds his eye and sees the ways Bucky looks his age -- those lines, this tact, these endless worries. Bucky looks so old to him now. All at once he's so devastatingly old.

"I'm sorry," Steve tells him, muted by clutter.

Bucky blinks and raises his head. "Why?"

Steve's still not sure.

"I was acting like an asshole," Bucky goes on.

"Well… yeah. You were."

"I didn't mean to run into Gregor. Natasha--"

"His name is actually _Gregor_?" Steve says suddenly. "He looks like a Gregor. You could hit that guy in the face with a frying pan and he wouldn't know what hit him."

Bucky's smiling, studying him -- really studying him, like he doesn't think Steve should be there at all.

"Come have a drink," Bucky says.

He's apologized now. The plan was to go back to bed. "It's late," Steve says.

"Well, then, go back to daydreaming about hitting Gregor in the face if you want. Either way, I figure you're not gonna be sleeping."

The low drag of Bucky's voice inspires in Steve something familiar and contrary. He steps into the room and pours himself a drink, throwing himself into an armchair across from Bucky. The light casts half his face in shadow, and Steve can't read him -- he can't read him like this. God damn them both, he can't read him at all.

Steve sets his bare feet on the table, his knees splain wide. He stares at Bucky down the line of his arms. Bucky stares at him back, tired, shoulders sloping low. 

They languish there, vulnerable. Steve's not sure what to do from there.

"I didn't sleep with him," Bucky finally says.

Steve smiles helplessly. "I figured."

"I didn't…"

Steve waits when he trails off, but Bucky just shakes his head.

"Well," Steve says, "I hope you had fun. After I left."

At first Bucky nods, but then he shakes his head again. "No. I felt like shit the entire time."

Hating himself for it, Steve fights a smile. 

Bucky cocks his head at him. "Really?"

"Sorry." 

"Well." He takes a steady drink. "Then I guess we're both assholes."

Steve lets the smile break through, this time. "That's always been true."

"I guess it has." Bucky looks so goddamn tired. "Thank God you're back, to be honest. I've been carrying this burden alone for years."

"It seems like Sam does okay as Captain Asshole at least some of the time."

"Well, yeah. But he's trying to retire."

"I hear that once you take it up, you're an asshole for life."

"That's what he says, too."

Steve laughs quietly -- a terrible reflex. The silence that falls after is at least companionable.

"I'm sorry it went that way," Bucky finally says. "Tonight. I didn't mean for… I swear to you. I don't know what I was doing."

"I think," Steve finally says, "that maybe you did."

Bucky slides further down the couch, sighing hard. He gestures to Steve, and then to himself. "I'm not immune to… what you're going through."

"I know."

"I'm not trying to hurt... anyone."

"I know that, Bucky."

"It's just -- stones unturned."

At that, Steve frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Fuck, Steve, I dunno. We shouldn't be talking about this. Years of…"

He trails off. It's a strange honesty. He rolls his glass on its rim against his thigh in slow, concentrated circles.

"You died on me once too, y'know," Steve mutters, looking at the floor. 

Bucky gives a laugh, quickly aborted. "Well, I guess I did. Guess you know all about it, then."

"I had a little more certainty about it than you did. No one should've survived a fall like that. Closure."

"Sure. I saw you disappear right the hell in front of me. Where the fuck did all this--" He gestures at the piles of books on quantum mechanics in the corner. "What hope is there to be found in that?"

"Well," Steve says, looking at them, raising the glass to his face, "I guess we were both wrong."

"Guess we were."

Another heavy silence falls.

"Did you anyway?" Bucky asks quietly. "Watch me fall, and then think I might've… made it?"

They're both looking at the same spot on the floor in front of them. "Yeah," Steve says. "Of course I did. Can't say it was wise."

"Well, you've never been wise, Rogers."

Steve smiles at his feet. "Well, I knew you were a survivor is the thing. Thought there was at least a chance you might've caught on a tree or landed in water. Thought maybe you found a cave, or a cabin, or a bunker to hide in, until someone found you. I figured someone had to, eventually. Sometimes I even--" 

He stops himself. Guilt burns molten in his chest for even having had the thought.

"Sometimes what?" Bucky murmurs. He's looking down through the bottom of his glass.

"Sometimes," Steve says, shutting his eyes hard, "I hoped you'd lose a foot to hypothermia or something, so they'd have to send you home and you wouldn't have to…" He mimes holding a rifle, then shakes his head. "I dunno what that makes me."

But Bucky's smiling, of all things. "Well, you weren't that far off."

"Guess not." Steve gestures at the books. "Guess you weren't either."

Bucky's eyes follow where he's pointing, face pinching with embarrassment or regret. "Steve -- goddamnit. I didn't know a thing." 

There's something disarming about seeing Bucky defenseless like this. In all their years, in all their time, Bucky's never let his shoulders go slack until Steve has stripped him down. Now here he is, twelve decades old, a grind in his voice and a slump in his spine. "Sometimes I hoped… or maybe just wondered. If you'd up and left me." He smiles at Steve thinly, looks at him direct, and suddenly Steve wishes he'd look anywhere else. 

"Bucky." 

"Thought you might be out there somewhere, thought I'd find you in the world."

"I'd never have just left. Not you, not without saying goodbye. You must've known that."

Bucky shrugs, like it's irrelevant if he did or not. "Thought pretty much everything was _possible_. Hard to say what I thought was likely. For a while I even became convinced -- _really_ convinced, and I mean dedicated, I had charts -- that Hydra disappeared you to make you theirs. Decided they were making you a Soldier, to bait me, or just to…" His voice thins out; he clears his throat, gestures loosely. "Other days I thought I was just too much for you. Other days I was convinced you were dead. I believed all these things while also believing, somehow, that you were just out of phase. Kept talking to the empty room for goddamn years, Rogers. I could've sworn you were right--" He grasps at the air. "I could have sworn you were there."

Steve's heart's in his throat. He realizes the fingers wrapped around his glass are aching with tension. "But you had to have known, Bucky. After all the -- you had to have known I wouldn't have left you without saying goodbye. Not willingly."

"Yeah," Bucky says, nodding slow. "On some level, I knew. Not on every one."

Another slow, careful breath. Steve doesn't know why Bucky's telling him this.

"I'm sorry," says Steve. "That you were left to that."

"Not your fault."

"Still happened."

Bucky finds his gaze, then. Steve feels the tension build brutally around them. "I've been having this problem, last few years," Bucky says. Steve longs to interrupt him, though he doesn't know why. "Keep picking up these blonds. Big guys, skinny ones... doesn't matter. So long as they're blond. Took me a long time to figure out I've been waiting for them to kiss me the way you did." 

"Bucky."

"I've had some good relationships with some good men the past few years," Bucky mutters. "I wasn't lying about that. Sometimes I wouldn't think of you for weeks." When he meets his eye again, it's full of a nameless, toilsome thing. "But I'm wired for you, Rogers. I'm fifty years old and you're still not out of my system."

A sea of honesty and all of it brutal. Steve wonders if this is how Bucky's always experienced truth -- like a suckerpunch, a sledgehammer, right to his core.

"I knew what I was doing at that fucking bar tonight." Bucky smiles at him a little, as though congratulating, but it doesn't look right on his face. "Something tells me you'd kiss like I remember. The thing of it is, though, I dunno if I can face that. Not having dwelled on it. Now that you're here, I'm--"

A sound breaks in his throat and Steve's breath breaks after it. Bucky's brow folds with grief. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this," he says into his whiskey. "I'm drunk I guess but I used to feel you around the house. Talked to you a lot. Or talked to myself. Guess I'm still in the habit."

There's nothing Steve can say. A visceral ache radiates in his chest, hot and fierce and somehow vital. He presses the heel of his hand to tamp it down, clenching his fingers in the fabric of his shirt. 

Bucky points at him and nods, tangling his fingers in his shirt the same way. "Yeah," he says. "That. It felt exactly like that for the longest time."

They're united in heartbreak, divided by time.

"I'm not who I was eighteen years ago," Bucky says. "I think about you, but it's not the same."

"Bucky."

"I'm not the man you left."

"I don't care."

Bucky looks like he expected him to say it, but there's tragedy in his smile. "I do."

But Steve's feverish, now, desperate for him to understand. "Bucky, I -- this week, it's -- the thing is that there's not a thing that I see in you that I don't like. I wish you'd give it a--"

"No."

"I'm trying to say I still feel for you--"

"Steve, Jesus. No you don't."

Steve is bewildered. "Why are you fighting this? If that's the way you really feel--"

"Because I'm not him. My name is Jack."

"You're Bucky," he breathes. "You're Bucky to me."

Bucky's eyes are closed. He shakes his head, teeth sinking into his lip.

"I'm right here, Bucky," Steve says softly. "God knows I'm willing."

"Steve, it's not--"

"It's not what you want?"

"It's not _smart._ "

"Who cares if it's _smart_?" he says, voice quailing. "If this is what you want, and you have the opportunity -- Bucky, why wouldn't you--"

"Because if we pick up where we left off and then I send you back," Bucky says loudly. "What happens to me then?"

Truth settles, smothers them both. The only sounds are the beats of their hearts.

"Is this is what you imagined?" Steve finally asks, throat sticking with something unknown. "When you thought of me coming back? Because when it was me, Bucky, thinking of all the possible ways you survived, the only thing I wanted was..."

But when his voice dies on him, suddenly he understands: it's too much honesty, too hard to admit, when all that you want is who's sitting in front of you.

"No," Bucky says, voice dragging. "It's not what I imagined. But a lot of what I imagined hasn't survived."

Their gazes lock, then: in standoff, or in challenge. Sorrow and wanting wrap at Steve's feet: twin chains of sinking anchors.

"I shouldn't have said all that," Bucky says, but his gaze lingers on Steve's lips. "Alcohol affects me more than it used to. Full of mistakes, I guess."

"No mistake," Steve says, but Bucky's getting to his feet.

"I got meetings in the morning." 

"Bucky."

"Go back to bed." 

"Wait -- Buck--"

He brushes an affectionate thumb at the ball of Steve's foot, as though to absolve him from blame. "Is Burrito good?"

"He's _good,_ but -- _Bucky_ \--"

But he's turning away, hand gone from Steve's foot. Steve watches his retreating back, heart pounding hard, sure he's letting some opportunity go--

He's on his feet before he can talk himself out of it. 

Bucky must have heard him coming, because he's already half-turned by the time Steve gets to him. One of his hands bunches in the front of Steve's shirt, warning or wanting, but Steve ignores him either way -- he steps into his space, one hand guiding Bucky's hips flush against the wall, and slots his lips over Bucky's like no time has passed.

The world slams out of focus. The whiskey tastes better from between Bucky's lips. Steve keeps his touch light, testing, waiting for an answer as the breath skitters from his nose. Bucky's knuckles tense against his chest, something turns in his chest, his bottom lip shakes --

Then, slowly, Bucky kisses back.

Tension unfurls. Bucky pulls Steve in by the fist in his shirt and Steve leads with his jaw, trying to chase out those sounds in his throat. He braces a hand against the wall beside Bucky's ear, finding that taste in every corner of his mouth. Bucky's fingers hook in the waist of Steve's pants to pull his hips in to pin his to the wall, and that's almost too much; Steve's brow steeples, he exhales a moan, then scans a tongue across Bucky's lip, leaving him shuddering the same.

Steve takes it all in -- the slow, reluctant roll of Bucky's lips; the way Bucky's hand snakes to the back of his neck to hold Steve in place. For a moment they barely move, basking in this heat, locked in by passion, cast here in cleft light from the living room lamp.

How easy it is, to break each other down. How easy it feels to crack open this wide. Bucky kisses differently now, though he still feels like home; as though now in hope, instead of in trying to drive something out.

It's Bucky who pulls away, though his palm still holds steady at the back of Steve's neck. "You're so fucking stupid," Bucky whispers, feeling roughing it to shards.

"I just wanted you to know," Steve says. He leans his face down against Bucky's neck. He brushes his lips at the plane of his throat and just wants him, wrapping his arms around Bucky's shoulders, holding him tight. "I just wanted you to know, Bucky. And now... now you know. So you say we're done? We're done. That's all I--"

"Steve."

But Steve's already going, hands sliding humbly into his pockets as he steps back against the wall. 

Bucky breathes at him, hands falling to his sides. There's not even a foot between them, but it feels like a mile.

"I have to go to bed," Bucky finally says. His eyes follow the contour of Steve's face, like he's looking for something.

"Okay," says Steve.

But neither of them moves. 

"When I imagined it," Bucky says, and Steve raises his chin to brace for impact. "You didn't leave. You stayed here, with me. When you came back."

Steve nods.

"But I also imagined you never fucking leaving." He takes a deep, filling breath, as though to bolster his courage. "So are you gonna stay with me? Or are you gonna go back for the man you left? Because you can't do both."

A tumultuous pause. Steve doesn't know the answer.

Bucky's jaw clenches, like he knows it. "Goodnight, Steve," he says.

Steve tries to reply, but he can't make a sound. Instead, he grabs Bucky by the hand when he pushes off the wall -- a conciliatory gesture, partway in apology, partway in longing.

To his shock, Bucky holds -- snags Steve's fingers against his own, his arm stretching long. 

Their grip only breaks when Bucky steps out of range.

He doesn't look back as he closes the door.

  



	9. Somewhere A Big Dog Barked

  


### June, 2018

Steve watched in the mirror as Bucky wrapped a slow, commanding hand around his dick.

"Watch me," Bucky said, catching Steve's eye in the reflective glass. Steve felt dizzy; Bucky ghosted his lips against his ear. Bucky's hand didn't move; the fingers of his prosthetic sat firm at his hip, holding, unneeded. Steve was already transfixed by him, conspired to stillness by the challenge in his eyes. 

Bucky's mouth brushed hot at the crook of Steve's neck and then closed, tasting, and Steve's breath hitched. It was too much; it wasn't enough. 

A million miles away, out on the sidewalk, somebody laughed. It was the first muggy day and they had the windows splayed wide, but the air stayed still as a swamp between them. Sunlight diffused dimly through their deep-blue curtains. The impression was of dusk, though it was midday. Time passed slow, stagnant and fuzzy.

Bucky knew how to break him down, piece by piece. He always had. Disillusioned with his body, Steve used to get so frustrated back in the day that Bucky would strip the clothes from his bony limbs and show him his reflection in some cheap pocket mirror he'd nicked from work. "This is how I see you," Bucky told him, and at Bucky's hands it never seemed that bad: angles looked different, the slant of them sharp but oddly intriguing. There was tone to some muscles he'd never have seen from his vantage.

Bucky would follow the mirror with a smoothing palm, fingers tracing over every harsh detail of him -- over the shadows of his knobby knees, across the bones of his ankle, at the jut of his collar and the edge of his hip. His dick hung heavy between his legs by the time Bucky was done and Bucky ran his hands over that, too, staring Steve dead in the eye as he did it. Steve knew then that Bucky wasn't thinking of anyone else when he touched him.

After the serum, Bucky did just the same. Testing, mapping, until Steve's back arched against the bed. He'd splain a pillow over his face to stopper the moans. "Look at you," Bucky'd said, dumbfounded by him.

"Look at me," Bucky was saying, teeth teasing sharp at the lobe of his ear.

Steve's breath shuddered out of him as Bucky's hand stroked down the whole heavy length of him. Steve's fingers curled at the back of Bucky's thigh, trying to reel him in. His erection pressed against the curve of Steve's ass -- a suggestion, or a promise. His hand splayed wider at Steve's naked hip. The hand at his dick held still, controlling, warm fingers loose and firm -- a whole grip, encompassing, thumb set against his head.

Steve couldn't take his eyes off him. He watched them both in the mirror, his breath stuttering, desperate to stay steady as Bucky took him apart. He was always made breathless to be treated this way -- to feel so wanted. To be treated as valuable.

Bucky's arm shifted across his torso, hand splaying across his gut. Steve was held tighter like this and he inhaled, sharp; he hadn't expected it. "You're beautiful," Bucky whispered, and pressed his mouth against his jaw. It hit Steve like a gale -- the reverence in it. 

Emotion broke fast. He didn't dare to move as Bucky pushed up against him, as his lips drew designs at the slant of his shoulder -- until Bucky reached down and tested Steve's balls against his palm. 

It was so intimate, so _intentional_ , like Steve's masculinity meant the world to him. Steve's breath drew sharp, staggering, and that brought a sound from Bucky's throat. Bucky shut his eyes hard, burying his face in the crook of Steve's neck, and -- oh, _God._ Bucky breaking first, even as he treated Steve like this -- of all the comely, senseless things. 

"Oh," Steve said: a reflexive sound, forced out by want. This is all Bucky wanted: Steve at his hands. Steve, at his mercy. It was too much to bear. Bucky held him close, breathing hard against his skin, and they left the world behind -- surrendered to this, to each other, cast aglow in the bedroom's dim light. 

Steve buried his free hand in Bucky's hair and _held_ , watching as Bucky mouthed against his neck. "Bucky," Steve said, and Bucky's eyes canted up; found his in the mirror, full with dark, lidded lust. His hand wrapped steady back around Steve's dick and a bit was all it took -- fire spread in him, reaching high and then low, curving tight around his ribs, making his breath slow and harsh. 

Bucky held his eye and took him whole -- stripped him of resolve with long, loose strokes, his palm slick with sweat, and Steve's toes curled; he forced a slow breath, but want pulled tight. Heat spread to every corner of him and Steve's stomach coiled -- Bucky's fingers held, mouth against skin -- his eyes dark in the mirror, and Steve was shuddering apart--

  


***

  


Steve wakes up incredibly hard. 

He's not quite sure what to do about that. He knows what he _wants_ to do, but since it's images of Bucky flitting through his head, he's not sure he should...

_The way his back hit the wall when Steve led him to it, as though he'd wanted Steve to put him there--_

No. He's not going to think about it. He's not--

_"Watch me," Bucky'd said, lips against his ear._

Steve throws the covers off him and buries his face in his hands, trying to think of anything else.

_Bucky's fingers in his hair, the way he'd tasted of whiskey, the way he'd chased the kiss he'd claimed not to want--_

"Fuck," Steve whispers. He's not going to be rid of this.

A glance at the clock tells him Bucky's probably been gone for hours already. Well, there's nothing to be done; he'll be hopeless until he pulls himself together. He takes his pathetic hard-on to the shower and comes in minutes with one hand braced against the tile, the other perilously tight around his dick. 

_Steve blowing him in the shower, Bucky's knuckles white at the tile, prosthetic fingers tight in his hair--_

That was two decades ago last Thursday.

It turns out the come-down is worse than the erection. Steve shuts off the shower and leans his forehead against the tile, pathetic again with one fewer hard-on. He steps out of the shower, dries angrily off, throws the towel against the door--

Somehow, it leaves a dent. Now that's just ridiculous. Is the door a soft wood? He picks up the towel again and throws it harder, just to make sure it was him; the dent grows more impressive. 

Well. He'll have to come up with a better story for how that happened. Against his will, a pun about fabric softener elbows its way in among the possible explanations. Steve shuts his eyes and turns his face to the ceiling, hating himself, hating everything about this.

There is nudging on the other side of the still-closed door. 

"It's fine, buddy," Steve says.

Burrito gives a gentle whine, as though unconvinced. He paws persistently, snuffling at the gap by the floor. Steve rolls his eyes and pulls on his sweatpants, opening the door with exasperated flourish. 

"There's nothing wrong," Steve tells him, stepping aside to let Burrito look. Burrito cocks one eyebrow at him, then another. He doesn't seem that interested in the room. He just stares at Steve.

Steve sighs and stoops to pick up his shirt from the floor. Burrito wanders away again. Steve wipes his weaponized towel against the mirror, determined to put some product in his hair today, remembering Sam's old wisdom that doing one nice thing for yourself can turn a day right around.

But already the task is harder than it seemed. He's taken off-guard by the formless, labelless mess of glass bottles arranged neatly along the mirror's edge. Shaking his head, he opens the first drawer to find a hair product with a bright blue container calling itself POW!MADE. 

He unscrews the lid and frowns into it unhappily. Beside him, Burrito exhales. Steve turns to see him dropping his leash in the bathroom doorway, staring at Steve expectantly as he does.

"Is that what you want?"

Burrito walks away again. Steve shakes his head, officially bewildered. On closer examination, POW!MADE does not seem formulaically comparable to any pomade he's ever seen. If he had to describe it in one word, the word would be 'rubbery,' which seems like bad news for a so-called beauty product. A quick rifle through the drawer's contents shows Bucky has a lot of products that seem unlike anything he'd ever use.

Steve realizes with a pang that this might be the castoffs drawer.

His hand freezes. He stacks a few products on top of one another and removes them from the drawer entirely. Sure enough -- there's a watch, still ticking, but in no way Bucky's style; there's an earring, for God's sake. 

Or... a piercing of another kind? 

Steve looks abruptly up at himself in the mirror. Could Bucky... have…?

Oh, God... _does_ he--?

A tennis ball bounces gently into the bathroom. Steve blinks down at it when it hits his foot, and then at Burrito, who pants at him cheerfully from the doorway.

"Are you trying to get me out of here?" Steve asks.

"Brf," says Burrito.

Steve looks at him dubiously, but throws the stack of products back into the drawer and throws it unceremoniously closed. He's right, after all. He's being ridiculous. "You get Bucky out of bed this way this morning, too?"

Burrito sets off to sit hopefully in front of the front door. Steve collects the ball and the leash from the floor, fishes socks out of the dresser, and steps into the kitchen to grab something to eat before they go. His eye catches on a note on the counter, scrawled hastily in Bucky's angular writing--

_Gone all day, home late_  
_Grocery delivery @ 2100, please accept_  
_Take Burrito out would you?_  
_xo -B_

Steve's eyes fix on the signature, attracted by a dissonance he can't name. He runs a thumb over the letters. _xo -B._ He can tell, now, that it was written from Bucky's left hand; he recognizes the slant of it, the way it leans the wrong way. Suddenly he remembers the way teachers used to snatch the pencil out of Bucky's left hand and slam it into his right -- and the way Bucky learned to write that way to appease them, then switched back to his left when he was alone.

Burrito barks at him from the door. Steve clicks his tongue and drops the note, opting to abandon the kitchen altogether. He grabs the usual apparati from beside the door, the hat, the rose-coloured glasses, the gloves in the middle of May, and finds himself averting his face from screens with relative ease. On some level, he thinks he's impressed with his rate of adjustment, though for the first time he registers ads showing him dog treats now that he's with Burrito. Steve fleetingly indulges another fantasy of grabbing the nearest garbage can and smashing the screen to smithereens, but he is stymied in his efforts by a lack of nearby receptacles. Tragic. Bucky wouldn't like him drawing attention to himself anyway.

They're most of the way to the park when Burrito growls, out of nowhere. Steve frowns and looks around, trying to figure out where he's looking. Bucky'd said that Burrito is particular about the company he keeps, but he's far from shown it; everyone in the general vicinity of Burrito has been more than welcome -- except for that woman down by the pier. 

Steve looks around, half-expecting to see her looming, but Burrito pulls the leash to a guy straight ahead. On visual scan, the guy seems unremarkable, except for a vest which seems a little odd, given the weather. There's an emblem on his shoulder. Steve's gaze hangs on it, memory sparking. He's sure he's seen it before, but he can't place where. 

Steve flicks his gaze up to the man's face before he can stop himself. By now his scrutiny's attracted attention. Vest guy stares back, narrowing his eyes at the dog as Steve holds Burrito back.

It's not surprising when the man slows. Steve steps past, even as the guy turns to face him. Steve doesn't change pace, keeps his gaze straight ahead, rifling frantically through his mind to place that emblem. Was it war propaganda? Catholic iconography, Hydra insignia? It's faint in his memory; he keeps coming up short. Maybe it was in one of those old books on the Greeks he'd read as a kid, or--

"Hey," calls the man. Steve ducks his head and walks on. He wishes he had a cell phone he could hide behind, or anything that might help him. A subway pass. A sudden crowd.

A hand pulls at his arm -- an unwelcome intrusion. Steve subdues a hot surge of anger, then turns to the guy, ironing out his frown mid-turn. "Yeah," he says breathlessly, looking at the man with an open mouth. He becomes Graham, an art student. A tourist. An innocent. 

"You know these are illegal?" the guy says. He tries to snatch the glasses right off his face. Steve's too fast for him; he leans hard away.

The guy cocks an eyebrow. Steve fantasizes about punching the eyebrows right off him. 

"They're just my glasses, guy." Steve smiles like an idiot. "Not illegal."

"They obscure retina scans."

"No they don't."

But, naturally, it would never be that easy. The guy stares at him, like he's trying to figure Steve out. "ID."

Steve blinks at him. "Sorry?"

"Show me your ID."

 _I don't think so,_ Steve thinks. Who is this asshole? "On what grounds?"

"I asked."

"I don't--" he says airily, then shrugs. "Listen, I'm new here. I'm just trying to get to the park. I'm not sure what you--"

"Let me see your identification."

Steve's eyes flick to the sidewalk's passerby. From the fact that no one's even looking his way, he deduces he's alone. "I don't have it on me," he finally says.

The guy's whole face changes. He leans forward, like he can't believe what he just heard. 

Beside him, Burrito's growl redoubles. Steve reaches to settle him, but then -- the guy recoils.

Steve forces an exhale. They retreat to a stalemate. Steve thinks he'd better give the dog about a thousand treats when they get home.

"That dog registered?" the guy asks.

"He's registered."

"How long have you had him?"

"I'm just the dogwalker."

"You're just the _dogwalker_."

"Like I said, I'm new around here. Just trying to pick up some extra cash while I take a few classes. Why did you stop me? Am I free to go?"

But then he notices the guy's hand's been traveling around his waistband as Steve's been talking. In the space of a second, Steve's redoubled the leash around one hand and caught the guy's wrist with the other; vest guy's gaze sets in steely certainty, but Steve's got the upper hand now. He can see a baton sheathed in his belt, and the butt of a pistol. A quick analysis of his posture suggests he's probably got an ankle holster, too.

That changes things. So the insignia probably isn't an old Greek symbol after all. 

"You don't want to do that," Steve tells the guy, low, aiming to de-escalate. People _have_ started to slow, now; passerby glance at Steve, and then at the guy, and then hurry past with their heads downcast. The guy must have a rep.

"You're gonna want to unhand me," he mutters.

"You're gonna want to keep your weapons where they are," says Steve.

"You don't know who you're dealing with."

Then -- Steve can't help it -- he smiles.

The guy's gaze hardens. They pass another tense instant, and then the guy moves. He's faster than Steve expects, whipping his arm out of Steve's reach, but Steve's faster still; the guy's still fumbling for his gun when Steve sends it skittering into the road. 

Whatever the guy expected, it wasn't that. He looks right at Steve just as Steve slams an elbow into his face. With an easy foot in his chest, Steve sends him sprawling to the ground and takes off down the road, Burrito lolloping beside him, the pair of them cornering easily into an alley, Burrito barely needing a guiding hand.

He knows Bucky's gonna kill him, but somehow Steve can't seem to stop grinning. Just for the moment, things feel _right_. He guides Burrito around the corner with another gentle tug, zigzagging down one street and then another. Though he can hear voices shouting behind him, they seem to keep growing fainter. One honk, and then another; a quick glance behind him shows thick pedestrian traffic where there wasn't any before, forcing his pursuers out onto the road. Steve thinks about going into the park, but thinks better of it -- decides, among other things, that the park directories likely serve a surveillance purpose and are best avoided. 

So he and Burrito continue to dodge and weave between streets and alleys until finally it seems safe enough to slow to a jog. Just a guy in jeans and a mastiff, out for a run. It's ridiculous, but it only needs to get them to cover. They happen across a pet store, of all things, and Steve ducks inside; grabs a water bowl when they enter, setting it down at the back of the store behind a big guy with a Pomeranian. 

They spend a few minutes convalescing, him and Burrito, and then Steve sneaks out the back, about-facing and backtracking until they finally get home. By then Steve's been sweating under the midday sun for at least a solid hour. He throws the dog a few treats and rubs at his tummy, then takes another shower, cleaning himself for once.

Steve finds he's unexpectedly cheerful and expectedly ravenous. He wanders into the kitchen again, peering at Bucky's note to confirm the timing of delivery. That signature. _xo -B._

He presses a thumb against it, then opens the fridge to find it cleaned out. 

The majority of the leftovers, to Steve's horror, are gone. Maybe they taken to UFoE for whatever meetings Bucky had planned, but in the middle of the fridge still sits half a chocolate cake. 

For the day he's had, it seems as good a lunch as any. He takes it out and to the couch in full, throwing himself down with a fork and dedication.

Steve browses channels, but it's only a few minutes of before he's bored again. "Don't you have anything good?" he asks it absently, and to his surprise the channel flips over, landing on what looks to be a documentary about espionage during the Cold War.

"Oh," he says, blinking. "Thank… you?"

The interface chimes affirmatively. 

Steve finds himself frozen, fork halfway to his mouth. He has the suspicious impression the interface would've spoken there, if Bucky hadn't disabled it.

"Have you been taking note of what I'm reading?" he asks the room.

Another chime.

"Would you stop if I asked you to?"

Chime again.

"Please stop."

A slightly lower-pitched, but still affirmative, chime. 

That's an AI.

Steve's gonna have to ask Bucky about that.

The documentary ends up being decent. Steve's two-thirds of the way through the remaining cake before he figures he should probably stop eating it. He puts it back in the fridge, but the TV doesn't hold his focus the same way without something to do with his hands. He digs around for the post-its Bucky's been leaving notes on all week and starts a flipbook: draws a cartoonish Bucky doing one-handed push-ups with Burrito sitting on his back, both of them with their tongues sticking out. Burrito leaps off Bucky at the last moment and leaves him collapsing to the floor, a cloud of annoyance scribbled over his head.

The documentary bleeds into one about World War Two. Bored again, Steve turns the TV off, but it's harder to draw without background noise. Steve gets up and wanders restlessly, and winds up staring himself down in the bathroom mirror.

The growth on his face is getting elabourate. If that guy from earlier decides to hold a grudge, he might not snag on Steve without the beard the same way he would with it. Steve sets in on rummaging through the drawers for his razor. The top drawer shows him nothing new, but the problem becomes that the prospect of digging through the other drawers unnerves him. It feels like snooping. It's moments like these that remind Steve most starkly of the time that has passed -- a week ago he'd have used Bucky's razor without bothering to ask, and he'd have dug obnoxiously in every nook and cranny for it, too. But then, he wouldn't have needed to. He'd have known where it was.

His mood starts to sink. Desperate to take action against it, he decides that if there was anything Bucky really didn't want him to see, he wouldn't keep it in the apartment's shared bathroom. 

The second drawer is full of skin care products, which surprises Steve until he finds many of them boast scar removal. A third drawer is full of cold medications, antacids, and over-the-counter painkillers. Steve frowns at the aspirin, surprised to find it most of the way empty -- then his eye catches on prescription bottle, half-covered by a box of cold meds. 

The label on the bottle is facing him: oxycodone, prescribed to a distinctly Polish name, all the way empty except for three lonely pills. Oh, now he really is snooping. He throws the drawer shut, cursing to himself under his breath, and finally finds the electric razor, relegated to the bottom of the fourth and final drawer.

Steve finds this strange, until he plugs it in to find it doesn't work. He stares at it, frustrated, until his eyes follow the power cord of the device he just unplugged. He picks up some kind of stick from its holder and examines it closely. There is a flat edge, with a line of blue lights shining smartly out the end. 

Steve turns it over in his hand until he sees the brand name: _SonicShaver,_ imposed in fading white ink against a shining blue background. He sighs. This is going to be an experience. 

"Interface," he says. "Can you identify the device in my hand?"

The interface chimes affirmatively.

"Is it a hair removal device of some kind?"

Affirmative again.

"If I turn it on, am I going to somehow blast my face off?"

A note, falling to another in a minor key. That would be negatory.

"Is it in any way specified to Bucky's face?"

The interface is silent.

"The -- oh, for crying out -- _Jack._ Is it programmed to Jack's face at all?"

Another negative sound.

Steve clicks his tongue and turns to the ceiling. "If you're punking me in some way…"

Several consecutive negative sounds follow, oddly vehement, as though the interface is trying to assure him of its sincerity. Steve holds up a hand and sighs, moving the device against his cheek. "If I die, tell Bucky sorry about the cake."

He shuts his eyes and hits the button on the device. The hair falls off his face cleanly, easily; the only indication anything is happening to his face is a peculiar massaging sensation against his cheek. 

Steve may not understand it, but he doesn't mind the effect; he gets a near-perfect shave in less than ten minutes. As it turns out, he hasn't aged under all that hair. For some reason, part of him had thought that he might have, somehow.

Steve plugs the device back in and throws the broken razor where it belongs. Now he's back at loose ends. His palms start to itch, so he does what he always used to when he started climbing up the walls: he strides back into the living room and picks up a pen. 

He liberates some blank paper from under a stack of books on Bucky's desk, and before he knows it three hours have gone by, the groceries are being delivered, and Steve's completed done an impressive array of ballpoint sketches. There's one of Maria, smiling sharp; one of Jules, of Burrito, of the lake at the park.

Groceries now put away, he taps his pen taps idly against the last blank page. He's been avoiding drawing Bucky. He's not sure where to start, but he knows exactly what he wants. He's desperate to draw the lines around his eyes, as though to help him understand the years that have put them there.

Before he knows it, he's putting lines down. There's Bucky, grinning wide, greeting friends who call him the wrong name. Steve tightens the lines at his eyes, leaning forward and then back as he tries to get it right -- but he's not sure what he's trying to capture. It's Bucky, but it's not quite Bucky, either. There was such a distinct look to him, dancing at that bar. He doesn't know if he can recreate it without seeing it a hundred times. He isn't sure he can learn these lines until he's felt them under his thumbs, traced them with his fingers or his lips. A dozen times. Two dozen. Three. Steve used to study Bucky over the course of years. It's hard to say what it'll take to get right.

The abrupt sound of the dog's food disbursing startles him. It's pushing midnight, suddenly. He looks down to find six portraits of Bucky, all of them smiling. Steve shoves the drawings away from him and rubs furiously at his eyes. 

He throws a bunch of cheese on top of a loose pile of nachos and puts the whole works into the microwave, watching it spin, thinking of Bucky's eyes. Burrito watches him eat with alarming intent and then Steve takes him out, now that it's well after dark. He keeps them to a tight, nearby circuit, keeping his head down, not speaking to a soul.

When they get back in, there's a light casting in from Bucky's bedroom down the hall. 

"Buck?" Steve calls softly, throwing the keys in the dish as he enters.

"In here," comes Bucky's voice, croaky and run down.

Steve smiles a little as he throws off his shoes and pads across the kitchen to poke his head in the door. He'd left the drawings out, stupidly; the sheet of Buckys sits near the edge of the table, clearly pulled aside, smudged a little in one spot. Steve pauses, mortification rising high, but then he reasons Bucky's not pretending to be asleep. If he's mad at Steve for fixating on him, at least Steve's probably going to hear about it.

When Steve leans in the doorway, he finds Bucky stretched out long on the bed. His feet are the same, Steve notices, with those stupid knobbly toes -- the stubby hands of aliens. Bucky's holding a tablet in the air above him, but his eyes flick down to Steve. Whether by the cast of the lamp or other means, Bucky looks… impossibly soft. Tired -- beyond it. Warm, and at home.

Steve shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to look humble. The air weighs heavy with unsaid things: explanations, or apologies, or something else in between.

Finally, Bucky frowns. "Did you... shave?"

"Huh? Oh." Steve rubs a hand over his face. "Ah, yeah."

"Kinda liked it," Bucky says, and Steve's heart skips a beat before Bucky corrects -- "for cover's sake. Thought I told you to grow it out."

Cast in the warm glow from the lamp at his bedside, they stare at each other a little too long.

"You _told_ me, huh?" Steve finally says.

"Don't get contrary," says Bucky. "I'm trying to keep you alive here."

"Well…" He figures now's as good a time to come clean as any. "I kinda needed a cover… from my cover."

Bucky's face falls in gradual realization. "Tell me," he says, pushing himself up to sitting.

"It was a _minor_ encounter."

"Steve, I swear to God--"

Steve rolls his eyes, but a smile hints at his lips despite himself. "I was walking Burrito."

"This morning?" Bucky's voice has grown soft again.

Steve nods. "Elevenish."

"Go on."

"We were walking down Third on our way to Prospect Park and passed a guy with a funny insignia on his vest. It caught my eye, looked familiar."

"What kind of insignia?"

"That's the thing, I don't know. I know I've seen it before, but I can't place…"

Bucky grabs for the interface off his bedside table and brings up a symbol. "This one?"

"Yeah, that's it," Steve says, frowning. "How'd you know?"

"It's Rectify. You've probably seen that symbol a lot without realizing what it was. What kind of vest?"

"Leisurewear, casual -- and that's what was weird about the whole thing. He talked to me like he was a cop, but seemed real reluctant to identify anything about himself. He wasn't on duty, I could tell that much."

"That's not surprising," Bucky says. "Those guys are crawling the city. It's part of their contract -- they're supposed to be 'latent' observers, too. On-duty thirty hours a week and effectively 'on call' another twenty to thirty more. They're supposed to be keeping their noses to the ground for suspicious activity just while being in the world. They're everywhere. There were two of them with us on the subway last night."

And, Steve realizes, there'd been the two guys on the subway with Natasha later, too. "And they just advertise themselves like that?"

"By law," Bucky says. "Rectify was nearly stripped of its rights as an org thanks to repeated charges of impersonating an officer. This workaround changed very little practically, but it appeased the courts. Security agencies have a lot of rights these days. Willing to bet this guy didn't like you paying attention to it."

"It didn't help that Burrito growled at him, but no. He didn't like it."

Bucky clicks his tongue, frowning over the edge of the bed where Burrito lies. "That's your influence," he says to Steve.

Steve recoils, scandalized. "You're the one who said he was picky."

"He's picky, but he's not stupid."

"I'm stupid, now?"

"You tell me. You keep your head down or not?"

That's… hard to argue with. "I tried to ignore him, but he physically handled me. I figured pressing on would've just exacerbated the situation. Look -- you gotta believe me, Buck, I did my best with the tools I had. Played the dumb kid, I'm from out of town, I'm here taking classes, I'm just the dog walker. But he flagged on my glasses, said they were illegal."

"Oh," Bucky says loudly, wincingly, "goddamnit. We're moving to contacts."

"Why haven't you already?"

"Because those _are_ illegal, unfortunately. You face pretty hefty consequences in New York State for obscuring your identity, including deliberately obscuring your irises with lenses that adhere to the eye. People do it anyway, but since it usually means you're doing something you're not supposed to, they throw on obscene charges that make no fucking sense. People have served three to five years for that. When we haven't broken them out, anyway." He pulls a face, as though in apology or contempt. "Either they changed the law or that guy was full of shit." Bucky waves a belabouring hand. "So he says your glasses are illegal. You say…"

"...No they're not?"

Bucky actually seems to fight a smile. "Christ."

"Then Burrito growls again," Steve continues, "and then the guy's pretending to have a polite conversation with me while actually reaching for his weapon."

"Oh boy." 

"So I stopped him."

"Stopped him _how_?"

"I grabbed his wrist before he could touch anything."

Bucky closes his eyes and exhales hard. "And then what?" he says tiredly.

"Then he drew his gun. I disarmed him, set him flat on his back, and then we ran."

"What?" Bucky raises his eyebrows, plainly incredulous. " _You?_ "

"I had an innocent," Steve says, beating back a flash of annoyance. "I wasn't just gonna stand there and wait for him to get hurt, Buck, come on." 

Unexpectedly, he registers indistinct emotion on Bucky's. Steve cocks his head. 

"He can hold his own," Bucky says.

"Not against a guy with a gun and a point to make. I wasn't gonna let anything happen to your buddy, come on."

They hold eye contact for a minute, or a lifetime. Bucky finally leans on his elbow to peer over the other side of the bed where Burrito's settled himself down on the floor to snooze the day's excitement away. "Thank you," Bucky says to Steve, straightening.

"He's a good dog," he says, and shrugs an idle shoulder.

A long, peculiar silence settles as Bucky closes his eyes, head tilting back against the headboard. It's the same exhaustion from yesterday, only a little bone-deeper; Steve's just about to step back and let him rest when Bucky straightens again, rubbing blearily at his eyes. "C'mere," he says, nodding to the other side of the bed. "I wanna talk to you about tomorrow a bit."

At first Steve can't figure out what he's suggesting. Then he cocks a knowing eyebrow.

Bucky looks at him like he's being an asshole. "I'm sober this time, Rogers. We're not gonna make out." 

Steve keeps staring. Bucky rolls his eyes. "Look. I'm a fucking mess, alright? Between the mission and the dancing and the hangover and the inventory, I'm a walking corpse. This bed is very comfortable. I'm trying to conduct business and be responsible while also affording you the luxury of comfort, but if you're gonna be an asshole about it, you can stand over there and listen to me talk at you. Which is it gonna be?"

Steve takes a second to subdue his smile, but then he slinks into the warm light of the room, stretching out long on the bed beside Bucky. "My God," he says, testing his fists beneath him. 

"It's a goddamn dream," Bucky mutters, eyes closing again.

"How do you stand it?"

"I miscalculated. My bedfellows never want to leave now, even when I want them to."

Steve laughs, not expecting the honesty. "I'm surprised you bought a bed this comfortable. Knowing you, you might prefer a bed of rocks."

"Sam talked me into it," Bucky says. "He's such a fucking pillow princess." 

Steve hadn't expected that either; he hides his face behind a hand, grinning wide. "I mean that literally," Bucky says, egged on by his response. "Insisted on being as comfortable as damn possible in the midst, it was incredible. Then he complained about it being too much like a cloud when it was time to actually sleep. Wanted to sleep on top of _me_. Fucking asshole."

"You put up with that for six years?"

"It was extremely volatile."

Steve grins, knowing better. "Did you ever quit bickering?"

"Sometimes," Bucky says honestly. "We managed to keep each other grounded every now and then."

Steve nods, letting the mood blanket the room. "You miss him, huh?"

Bucky shrugs, but it's hard for him to really mask it. Exhaustion's already laid him open. "Sometimes," he admits, voice oddly smooth. "But don't tell him that."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"No replacement for the people we miss, y'know?" 

There's something in the tone of it that brings Steve to study him. Bucky lets him, for a while, but eventually he meets his eye, a little scrutinous himself. "You're being significantly more relaxed about me and Sam than I expected you to be," he says.

Steve shrugs, a little defensive. "Yeah, I mean... what objection could I have? Can't think of anyone better for you, Buck. If it couldn't be me..."

Bucky exhales hard, jaw clenching.

"You set me up for that one," Steve points out. "I'm not trying anything, I'm saying it makes sense. Always did think your sniping was less than platonic."

"Our sniping is genuine," Bucky insists.

"Genuinely affectionate, sure."

"Me and Sam don't get 'affectionate'. It's more of a manly _need_ situation--"

Steve rolls his eyes at him. "I saw you snuggling in the hall the other night."

"It wasn't _snuggling,_ it was momentary -- oh, shut the fuck up."

Steve covers his grin with a hand. "Sorry."

"What the hell's so funny?"

"Eighteen years and you still hold a grudge with snuggling."

"I do not! I just don't call it snuggling."

"What do you call it, manly grapple-holding?"

"Since you mention it."

Steve sets his hand over his eyes and tips his head back, laughing lazily through his nose. "Never really talked about Sam before," Bucky tells him quietly. "Sorry if I'm out of practice."

Steve's surprised by it. "Even with Natasha?"

"Occasionally she's on me to talk about my feelings, but, uh… mostly I only ever want to talk to you, so."

Steve wonders, suddenly, how many times Bucky's had this conversation with a Steve that wasn't there. "Can't help but notice you using the present tense with Sam," he prompts, mostly to try to get the flush out of his cheeks. "There still something going on?"

"Jesus," Bucky mutters. "Anyone ever tell you you're a pain in the ass?"

"Last week. Think it was you." He pretends to think it over. "It was definitely you."

"Sam's happy with his life. It's more that I can't help but feel like things shouldn't have gone south with us in the first place. I always… I always think I gotta make it right."

"You always were a fixer."

"Him and me," Bucky sighs. "A couple of fixers." 

"Yeah, I guess I -- I look at you, and I look at Sam, and I don't really understand how six years together can end in something described as an 'implosion'."

Bucky hums and settles in, and Steve follows suit, making himself at home among Bucky's pillows. "We wanted to do right by each other, you gotta understand. But when that's the only thing holding you together, it becomes its own fucked-up thing. Sharing the Cap title, trying to do the right thing by the people while also juggling issues the size of continents and trying to make something personal work? We wound up fucking in closets and on top of conference tables just to resolve personal tension long enough to focus on tasks at hand." Bucky shakes his head. "When we finally broke up and Sam left everything -- the relationship, Captain America, the state -- I felt like I lost my whole life all over again. It was a recipe for disaster from day one. But... for those six years? Guns to our heads, and we'd have still given it all up just to save the other." He clenches his jaw and looks at his prosthetic hand, fingers opening and closing with some peculiar tension. "You'd think I'd have learned my lesson about getting involved with self-sacrificial bastards, but… guess not."

Steve looks at him, heart twinging with sympathy. "I'm sorry you had to bear that alone."

"I had friends. Natasha, Clint. They dragged me through it."

"They drag you through the arm thing, too?" Steve gestures at his prosthetic.

"No..." He winces, hard. "Kinda wound up... unconscious and hospitalized on that one."

Steve gapes at him. "Jesus _Christ,_ Bucky."

"Like I said. Not exactly a chatterbox when it comes to personal issues."

"You must've opened up to someone at some point. Sam, at least."

"I mean, sure. He's always had a certain insight, a respect for the person I am. I never exactly had to hide with him. It wouldn't have been nearly so vicious at the end if we didn't somehow get each other."

Steve studies him a while, but far from hyperbolic, Bucky actually looks ashamed. "I have a hard time imagining you _or_ Sam being intentionally cruel," Steve says.

"You weren't there."

"How's something happen that way? If you really cared about--"

"I don't really want to do any more of a post-mortem on a relationship that ended seven years ago," Bucky says tersely.

Steve knows better. "Why not? You said you miss him, you don't talk about it… Maria said you and Marcus have more baggage than you're letting on."

"Goddamnit. See, this is why I don't tell people anything."

"Seems like maybe talking about it might do you some good," Steve says.

"Well, what'd she tell you, exactly?"

"That Sam and Marcus are _engaged_ , for one."

"I told you that."

"You said 'boyfriend.'"

Bucky waves a hand. "Old habits."

"And that you don't like him just as much as he doesn't like you…?"

"That's just a flagrant lie. He _definitely_ hates me a lot more than I hate him."

"But there's something more to it."

"It's complicated! Look -- he doesn't like that me and Sam are exes, alright? And I can't do a damn thing about that. We had a pissy conversation once where Marcus basically said he didn't like me and that he merely tolerates that I'm still in Sam's life, and now we've got all these _boundaries_ I gotta follow. Like I can't dance on the same day as Sam anymore. He's not even supposed to come to my house when we're alone. It's -- insane, actually, if you ask me." Bucky's tone falls flat, carefulness abandoned in the face of the facts. "We work together, for Christ's sake; if we're gonna bone, we're just gonna do it at fucking UFoE headquarters. Wouldn't be the first time."

" _Bucky._ "

"I'm talking realistically, here. No-contact isn't an option for the Captains America, and that partial shit doesn't make any sense to me."

"You're telling me Marcus is just putting arbitrary limits on when you can see Sam, _and_ Sam is enforcing them, for absolutely no reason?"

Suddenly Bucky has less to say. He examines his cuticles for a while. "It's possible that one time they had a fight and that Sam half-moved into the guest room for a few days," he mutters. "And maybe Marcus maybe had some legitimate questions about that."

"Uh-huh," Steve says flatly. "The guest room, huh?"

It takes Bucky a long time to respond. "It started out that way."

"Oh, _Bucky_." 

"Don't _pity_ me, I hate that."

Steve sighs, turning onto his side to face him. "When was this?"

Bucky waves a hand.

Steve balks. " _That_ recent?"

"Enough with the third degree!"

"I'm just saying -- you looked cozy enough to give me the wrong impression based on a ten-second glimpse I got _this week_. If you've been picking up with Sam while he's been with Marcus, seems like maybe you oughtta cut Marcus some slack."

"I do cut him slack," Bucky says. "I cut him lengths and lengths of slack."

"And yet--"

" _And yet_ he remains an asshole, and so do I." Finally Bucky looks at him, gaze bright, exhaustion gone. "Somehow no one's really surprised."

Steve gives him a look. Bucky clenches his jaw, nostrils flaring. 

"And was that the only indiscretion the two of you have had?" Steve finally says, returning his gaze to the ceiling.

Bucky doesn't say anything for a long time. Steve practically strains his neck craning to look at him again. "No," Bucky says eventually, tone bitter. "But that's the only one since they've been together, and it's not like we make a habit of it."

"It seems like more than once might constitute a habit."

"I take it back," Bucky says acidly. "I don't want to talk to you anymore."

Despite himself, Steve grins. 

"The point is that Marcus has an issue with me that's not gonna resolve until he decides to deal with it," Bucky finishes.

"Well, I'll give you that."

"Thank you."

"But it seems like maybe you and Sam do too."

"Ugh." Bucky runs a hand over his face. "It's _dealt with_. That was the last time, we both agreed: we're done for good. History is history. That's where we're keeping it."

"Have you agreed that before?"

"Not since we first broke up." Bucky looks dead at him, then. "You've got my word on that."

Steve's gut twists oddly, for reasons he can't quite parse. "Makes no difference to me," he says mildly, and he watches Bucky's face flicker with uncertainty.

"Right," he says, thin.

They lie in silence a long time.

"I'm surprised Sam did that," Steve finally says, and Bucky gives a hollow laugh.

"I'm surprised he ever came within ten feet of me at all, let alone came into my bed that night. But God knows he never had any intention of catching feelings for an embittered assassin with abandonment issues, either. The thing about Sam is that years working in close quarters, working through the night, trying to solve emotionally-charged problems like 'who killed Steve Rogers'... I always thought it twigged something in his -- I dunno what to call it. His heart, his head, his dick, hard to say. Always had this thing about work and loyalty that reminded me of…" He trails off, gestures at him loosely.

"Oh," Steve says. He winces hard. "Oh, Buck. You didn't tell him that, did you?"

"Oh yeah," Bucky says, low. "Six years of slow decline, Rogers, I'm telling you."

"Wow."

"Mistakes," he says quietly. "I've made a few."

A telling silence falls.

"But you miss him," Steve says.

Bucky smiles, then, and Steve's at least glad that their relationship yielded something that makes him look like that. "You know me," he says quietly. "Something about Sam is irreplicable. He knows my history in all its gritty details -- knew I used to be the Winter Soldier, has an understanding of the shit you and me went through, both before the war and during it... There was something to the fact I never had to pretend to be anything but who I was with him." He shrugs. "With the exception of you, I've never had that before or since. Turns out I value it pretty highly. Been dating as Jack for a few years now and it's been pretty fucked up, to be honest with you. Lying to people about who I am is weirdly tiring."

"What? Buck, you don't tell any of them who you are?"

"No," Bucky says. He sounds affronted at the very suggestion. "Of course not. I can't even tell them what I do. For the sake of the people we protect, their anonymity, and for the safety of the people I date -- someone figures out I'm on the UFoE board and I haven't somehow vetted them between picking them up at the club and bringing them here? They might start trying to hack through my security, get my contacts, doxx a bunch of Enhanced who've worked their asses off to establish themselves only to be told they're compromised just because I wanted to get fucking laid..."

"It can't be that polarized."

"You tell me, Steve. You've been Cap before. Do I let slip my secret identity before or after I run their fingerprints, irises, and faces through identification software while refusing to allow them to do the same for me?"

"Come on, Buck. I just don't buy there's no middle ground. Sam found someone."

"Sam got lucky," Bucky says pointedly. "Sam was also born in 1978, has both of his arms, and has been made the instrument of the world's leading terror organization a grand total of zero times. I, on the other hand, have two options: I can either date someone already within the organization I work for who knows the score with me -- which, having done that before and seen the collateral, I think I'd rather die -- or I can keep going the way I have."

"Or -- third option, just a crazy idea -- you can tell someone who you are."

"Are you fucking kidding me? Who in your world would stick around after hearing about that one time I killed JFK?" Bucky shakes his head, incredulous. "Compared to that, dating people on a need-to-know basis is completely fine. They can know me as Jack Sways. I get dates as it is and exactly zero questions about how many presidents I've killed. I'm kind of into that as a concept."

Steve fights a smile, but in the end it wins out. He's not sure what that says about him. "You could at least tell them your _name_."

"Jack is my name." 

Steve cranes his neck to him, ignoring that, waiting for him to respond to the rest. 

"Look," Bucky says, annoyed. "Where do I stop? What do I tell them about how I lost my arm? What if they know their history and try to make the connection? This is easier."

"Never getting close to anyone is easier?"

"Yeah," he maintains, "actually it is, and at this point it comes with the territory. The long and short of it is that the day I quit using a cover with my dates is the day I quit UFoE, and we both know the lengths I'll go to to avoid that outcome." He knocks on his own metallic left side with a bizarre sense of pride. "As it is, anyone gets even close enough to start figuring my shit out and I gotta give 'em the boot. Lately, that day usually comes sooner than later with the amount of times I'm called in to help extricate someone from Rectify custody in the average month. That's just the way it is, Steve, no sense fighting it."

Steve looks at him, gut churning piteously. "That sounds... terrible, Buck."

"I mean… on the one hand, a little. It can be lonely, I admit. But sex is still nice, and a real comfort sometimes. I like getting to know people. At its very worst, it still passes the time." 

"Sounds like people never really get to know you." 

"I got other people for that."

"Other people like Sam," Steve says. "Who's engaged."

"He wasn't engaged at the time!" Bucky shouts, intuiting his judgment, and Steve just grins helplessly to the ceiling. "Look, enough the hell about me. I've exposed myself to enough scrutiny for one night. How about you, huh? You catch any dick in the shadow realm?"

"Nah," Steve deadpans. "It's like the time passed in the blink of an eye."

"Funny."

"I thought so."

Silence falls. Whether owing to stress, inventory, or other things, Bucky seems preoccupied with his prosthetic -- keeps testing his agility, matching each finger to his thumb, pointer to pinky and back again.

"Feeling alright?" Steve says, nodding to it.

"Sure," Bucky says, and tucks his hand away. "Tired."

"So what _do_ you tell people when they ask about your arm, if not the truth? If you're getting naked with these people, they've gotta see…"

Bucky nods, eyes flickering shut. "Sam gave me a pretty solid script for Afghanistan. I pretend I used to be pararescue -- chute got caught in a propeller, took my arm and shoulder off while it was at it. Lucky I'm alive. Amazing what technology can do nowadays. Throw a plug in there for Stark tech, and..."

"They ever try to look you up?"

"Probably, but Jack Sways is pretty obviously not my name. The smart ones accept it. The ones who push never turn up anything, and they never last long anyway."

All Steve can do is shake his head. 

"I like my life, Rogers," Bucky says with only a hint of defense.

"You're making do," Steve says.

"No, I'm making a choice."

"You're choosing a life without intimacy?"

"No one said that. Is that what you…? Okay, fuck it. You want details? Listen up." Bucky sits up a little and Steve grins, in spite of himself; braces himself for whatever's about to come. "Jack Sways is a god among men, alright? It's important to me that you know this, Steve. You know how hard I have to work for attention? Zero. I walk into a setting where people know I'll be and there are at least three guys I could go home with that night, all who know my rep, and _all_ of whom are incredibly into me."

"Now you're just bragging."

"You're goddamn right I am. Listen up. The serum? It's _incredible._ Most guys get tired a hell of a lot faster than I do. Maybe you remember."

God help him, he can't stop grinning. "I remember."

"Word spreads. People talk. You know what I get in return for that reputation? _Mindblowing_ sex. You ever heard the expression 'bend over backwards,' Steve? Well, imagine it, because I'm not filling it in for you."

"Okay, okay," Steve says, laughing. Surely by now he's tingeing pink.

" _And_ , whether your heart of gold believes it or not, it can be incredibly intimate. Along with my reputation as a rockstar casanova, people also hear that I can be pretty considerate. It's true. I'm nice to people. God knows I get what it means to want a break from the world. Probably three out of every five I get in here are coming for an _experience,_ and I'm happy to provide. I take care of 'em if that's what they want, and often they come back for more." Bucky shrugs and slides back down, apparently having satisfied himself with his own explanation. "They trust me enough to let themselves get vulnerable under my hands. You telling me there's no intimacy in that?"

Steve thinks it through, but in the end he's left just shaking his head. "But -- do you trust them with _you_? Seems empty if it's one-sided."

Bucky doesn't have anything to say to that. Steve looks over to him to see him staring at the opposite wall. 

"Sorry," Steve says. Seems he's saying that a lot lately.

"You're not wrong," Bucky sighs. "It's just… some things aren't possible. I accepted that a long time ago."

"I hate to think that."

"But even with Sam." He shakes his head. "It wasn't quite... there was a barrier there."

"You couldn't trust yourself with Sam?"

"He knew me, he knew the score. But I don't think he ever…" He clicks his tongue, as though finding the words. "Whatever his deal was that eventually landed him in my bed, I'm pretty sure he wanted me because I was... the wrong choice. Because I was dangerous, or--"

"Oh, Bucky," Steve breathes, sympathetic. "No. Not Sam."

"Yeah," Bucky says, nodding, "Sam. I could feel it in him. Still can now, when we shack up. It's such a specific feeling. Sam says he wants a quiet life but really he likes the edge -- waits until the last second to pull out of a dive, pushes himself to his limits, even now that his limits are shot. He always looked at my prosthetic in the midst, at my fucking scarring -- then looked me dead in the eye, like he was waiting for me to go off." When he pauses to sigh, Steve watches him, not sure what to say. "Hell, I dunno. Maybe it was a little cathartic for me on some level. That he was looking at the Soldier half the time and still trusted my control over it enough to shack up." 

"Tell me that's not what was on your mind for six years."

He shrugs. "I could ignore it. Sam did his share to help me carry my burdens, so I could reason my way into a position where I could accept it. But if you're asking me if I could trust someone with the person I am? _Really_ am, metal bones and all?" He shakes his head. "I don't fucking think that's on the table. Making decent people afraid of me, even when they're as trusting as Sam? Nah. No thanks. I'll stick with what I've got."

Bucky's belief in it makes Steve ache. He wants to reach out, but doesn't know if he should. "I…" He swallows, suddenly nervous. "I hope… Bucky, did I make you feel that way?"

"No," Bucky says at once. "No, you always…" But he trails off. Steve tilts his chin back to try to catch his eye, but Bucky remains in steadfast avoidance, watching his prosthetic pulling idly at a hangnail. "You were always kinda the bar to clear," he mutters.

Steve takes in a sudden breath. His eyes fall over the lines on Bucky's face, tracking them, like a brush against canvas. "I," Steve says, but then he swallows and has to look away. "I hate to think you're not happy."

"I'm happy enough."

" _Enough_ seems like less than you deserve."

"I don't think I _deserve_ anything," Bucky says. His gaze flicks over to him -- falls from his eyes down to his mouth, then over to his neck. "Universe doesn't keep a tally."

"I don't know." Steve's fingers rise from the bed to take a wisp of Bucky's hair between them. He studies the grey strands interwoven with brown. Paint mixed on a palette. "After all that work to build a life, I just hate to think that no one…" His heart is suddenly in his throat. He wets his lips, takes a breath. "That no one..."

He notices Bucky's breathing -- the way it's gone jagged and short. His eyes keep falling on Steve's mouth, then flitting up again. 

"That no one loved you right," Steve finally mutters.

"The way you did, you mean." It's a croak, barely clearing his lips. He licks them clean of vulnerability. Steve follows the gesture with his thumb, collecting what Bucky missed. 

"Yeah," says Steve. He's not completely sure what he's agreed to, but it doesn't matter. 

Bucky's eyes search his. Steve forgets time. 

"Damn you," Bucky whispers, "you're such a--" and then he tips his chin forward and glances his lips against Steve's, as though to say with a kiss what he doesn't have the words for.

Steve doesn't move except to meet him. It's a lazy, gentle, lasting thing; Steve's on his back, his neck craning, his thumb tracing the line of Bucky's jaw. Their breaths hang until they don't, and it's Bucky's shaking exhale that does him in -- that brings Steve to roll onto his side, pulling Bucky in, willing him not to move.

He doesn't. Steve hums his relief -- rolls his tongue against his mouth, mapping the line of Bucky's lip. A moan dies, quailing, in the back of Bucky's throat. Steve opens to it, taking, deepening, reveling in the way Bucky's whole body seems to coil. 

He leans where Bucky wants him, liquid to suggestion. He nudges a knee between Bucky's, tangling their legs together. It's mostly familiar but a little unknown, reminding him of the early days of their courtship. They were getting to know each other then, tucking into one another with careful devotion, unwilling to break apart but unsure how to move ahead. 

Bucky's elbow is hooked behind Steve's neck, the other arm slipping under the hem of his shirt, and Steve coaxes Bucky close against him -- pulls more of him into his mouth until Bucky moans and leans, as though recollecting, as though finding remembrance in the curve of his lips.

Bucky's fingertips drag into his hair, folding then flexing long. Steve loses himself in the uneven measure of his breath, the stutters and the falls, chasing the feeling Bucky's trying to hold back. He tests a hand at Bucky's hip, his voice breaking in his throat when Bucky's fingers press against his spine, and there they stay: lost in each other, Steve's hips desperate to move, rocking gently, finally finding enough traction to make Bucky moan and roll Steve onto his back. 

Feeling rises and then expands until their mouths break apart. "How do you still do this to me?" Bucky mutters, or mouths, leaning over him, noses flush. 

"Do you want me to say it?"

"No," Bucky says harshly, and then he's pulling Steve in by a fist in his shirt, kissing him hard, as though trying to take all of him in at once. Bucky's straddling him, now. His hips grind down as his mouth aims to take Steve's apart, and Steve is left clinging to him, heady, serenaded by the sounds leaving Bucky from his chest.

Bucky's teeth scrape against his throat. Steve throws his head back, arousal flashing so hard that his hips leave the bed. All at once Steve becomes a clutching, stuttering mess. Bucky's thumb scans along his abs under his shirt, then his fingers climb, finding his ribcage, gripping at his pecs With a break of his breath he pulls Steve up until they're tangled together, sitting, Bucky's hips slung low and dragging over Steve's. 

"Get this off," Bucky says, pulling furiously at his shirt. Steve raises his arms and lets Bucky peel it from his form, canting his hips for balance. Oh, _that_ \-- the _angle_ \-- he surges up to do it again, grinding Bucky's hips down against him at the same time. 

Bucky's groan stalls in his chest, and he tangles a hand in Steve's hair and kisses him deep. It's wanting and angry, no room left for doubt. Steve feels like he's been torn to shreds before his pants are even off. Bucky leads, all jaw and teeth, his hips keeping rhythm, swiveling hard and then dragging down. It's with blatant control, it leaves Steve shaking; the only sign that Bucky's affected at all is the gust of his breath as he kisses Steve stupid. 

Steve wants to feel him, wants more of him, but Bucky grabs at his hands when they climb under his shirt. Steve tries again; again Bucky catches them, entwining Steve's fingers with his in the air.

"Hey," Steve mutters, disengaging his hands. He drags their hips still. "It's me, Bucky. Trust me." Without breaking their mouths apart, Steve tests his hands back under the hem of Bucky's shirt, moving them nice and easy. Slow, just -- learning him. His thumbs scan across the new lines of his scars, unhesitating. "Trust me with you."

Steve kisses him then, a slower, longing thing. Bucky takes it; Bucky starts to shake. Steve leans to pull his shirt off to one side, then takes just a second just to look at him -- to see how his prosthetic blends with the plating at his chest.

Then he looks up. He sets a hand at the back of Bucky's neck and pulls him down. Bucky relaxes, leans into him, pushes him hard against the bed. Steve hooks an elbow around his neck and holds him there until Bucky's supplicant and rocking, rutting against Steve through their cotton sweatpants. 

Bucky's hand brushes at Steve's hip, and that leaves Steve arching, of all things. It's the barest of touches that break him down. Against his mouth, Bucky smiles. His hand takes a more commanding hold, braces Steve's hip against the bed, and he rolls his hips twice, three times, leaving Steve gripping with white straining fingers. 

Bucky laughs into his neck. His fingers dip under the waistband of Steve's pants, and then Bucky's brushing the pads of his fingers softly against the length of him, and -- "Oh, God," Steve says, as Bucky scans his lips across his chest. "Oh, God," he says, as Bucky folds his sweatpants off his hips. He arches his back and the pants come clean off, and Bucky holds his hips down as they keep trying to roll. Steve's seeking something he's not yet being given. 

They remember this -- almost choreographed. The rhythm's long since established and has somehow never left. Bucky takes Steve's thigh in one hand and trails kisses from his waist, nosing into his hipcrease, suddenly pressing his mouth hard against him. "God," he says in a breaking a whisper, "you smell just the same," and then he traces a wet mouth closer to his dick, nosing again, lips tracing across the outline of his balls.

Steve's back arches hard when Bucky licks up the length of him. His mouth is hot, open, sealing over the head of him. Then Bucky looks up at him, and Steve is _gone_. His breath comes hard, hips trying to buck. Bucky holds him down. He stares at him, suckling. His lips trail back down. Steve grasps at his hair to drag him back up. Bucky doesn't seem to mind; he smiles, taking Steve into his hand, testing his length smoothly in his palm as he kisses up the other side of it. "Fuck," Steve says, "fuck, fuck," and he's desperate to have him, wanting every part of him-- 

Bucky seals his lips, breaching. Steve pushes in, teeth dug hard into his lip.

"Oh," Steve says, fingers tense in Bucky's hair. "Fuck _me_ ," he says, and pulls out again. Bucky's put his shoulders behind Steve's thighs and they're entangled, now; Steve pushes forward again without even meaning to. He can't take his gaze away. He can't help the build of heat in his eyes. Five days without him was already too long, and that grey in his hair, those eyes, that _mouth_ \--

Bucky hums, sets to work. Steve throws his head back, unable to take it and unable to stop. His throat constricts; he hears Bucky rutting himself off against the bed, and that's the -- _God,_ that's so hot, it's so much, Bucky's making him feel--

Oh.

"Oh no you don't," Steve drags out, pulling Bucky off his cock. "Nice try," he says, and he knows Bucky; he doesn't even need to look when he pulls open the nearest drawer for the lube. His heart's slamming in his chest as Bucky looks at him, pupils blown, head resting against Steve's leg, lips round and wet with the memory of effort. 

He looks tired again, but a little bit fond, like Steve fighting him on a blowjob is just beyond the pale. But Steve knows what he's doing. He drags Bucky up to kiss him, to take that red mouth. Steve can taste himself on him -- sweat and spunk. A note sings through him and straight into Bucky as Steve fists his own cock with a palmful of lube -- then he slides off Bucky's pants and grasps around him instead.

Bucky gasps, like he hadn't known it was coming. Bucky feels just the same, heavy in his hand. There's no reason he wouldn't. He's hard and thick and long and good and Steve gets it, suddenly, why Bucky wanted to suck him off. It's all Steve wants, too. To feel that girth breach him, to feel the way his mouth moves to take it -- to take anything, take it all.

"If you're going to fuck me do it properly," Steve says, and then he clasps his hand around them both. His left hand flips open the lube again as he strokes them off with his right, another dollop squeezing into his hand -- an agility act learned long ago, often practiced.

Bucky's trying to protest, but it comes out in sputters. Steve grips his hand tighter, brings in the other; makes them both slick again, fucking them both. "Fuck," Bucky says, now it's _Bucky_ who's swearing -- his hips stutter forward against his will. 

Steve grins. Bucky gasps. Steve's mouth finds his and kisses him, brutally, bruisingly, taking everything Bucky has to give.

Like that -- Bucky surrenders. His arms shake where they're holding him up. He slams a hand by Steve's ear against the headboard and there's grinding in his throat; his hips stutter into Steve's hand, against Steve's dick, the grinding turns wavering until it disappears. Bucky stops kissing him; he's lost to desire, to the build of his orgasm, to the waves, to the tides -- Steve feels it too. Bucky's knees adjust to give him more leverage and then he's really fucking against him, haggard, breathless, bringing himself off -- bringing Steve off. Steve's breath is short, he's trying not to come, and Bucky's close, too -- Steve can hear it in his breath.

But he seems to fight it off. He's drawing it out. Something pulls at Steve when he realizes it, and love and desire and something else bloom in him; suddenly he's falling apart. "You're holding back," Steve mutters against his brow. "I know you are, but don't. Come for me. Bucky, just--"

And he spills into Steve's hand, a quailing sound leaving him, his hips slamming hard; Steve comes to see it. Bucky's forehead hits Steve's shoulder and his ribs are heaving, his breath is too short; Steve puts his lips to Bucky's temple, dragging his mouth against those grey streaks, and takes in the smell of him as Bucky's arms collapse.

"An experience, huh?" Steve murmurs, and Bucky finally laughs breathily with bowed, shaking shoulders.

"Go fuck yourself," he grinds out, lying down against Steve's body.

"I don't have to," Steve says conversationally. "You did that for me." 

And Bucky's laughing again, tension shaking out of his body, his muscles relaxing inch by trembling inch. Steve reaches for his t-shirt to dry off his hands, and then combs his fingers through Bucky's hair, not caring what he leaves behind.

Bucky falls asleep quickly, Steve as his mattress.

Steve doesn't fall asleep for hours. He just lives in this, lives with him, heart gloriously fit to burst.

  



	10. Theoretical Corpses

  


Steve frowns gently as consciousness looms.

On the other side of the waking veil, a weight rests at his hips. Brightness, diffused, threatens to pull him from sleep. There's a mouth at his back; slow breaths bounce off his spine.

Steve's eyes flash open, fingers rending in the sheets. Bucky's leaned right up against him, leg pushed up against Steve's. He's facing downward a little, arm slung low, forehead buried between the blades of Steve's shoulders.

Steve wants to see him. He wants to look at him sleep. He wouldn't keep this from Bucky if his life depended on it, but he wants to learn him so bad. He wants to brush his fingertips over his face, and -- Bucky sleeps like the dead, except when he doesn't. Any movement could wake him, unless...

Suddenly, some ungodly sound reverberates in the room. 

Bucky sits bolt upright. "Jesus," he mutters, slamming his fist against the table. The sound dies, quailing; Bucky's surely broken something.

Steve rolls over. Bucky blinks at him, bleary with sleep. 

"Hi," Bucky says.

"Hi," says Steve.

Bucky looks at him a minute. Then he reaches out -- as curious about Steve as Steve feels about him. His fingertips drag along the slope of Steve's cheek, sliding into his hair, testing at his jaw. A hesitant thumb lands against his lips and Steve's lips part on instinct, wanting to take it.

"Shit," Bucky mutters. He pushes between them. He sounds like he's been hit with something; his thumb moves away. "You're way too sincere. You are _way_ too goddamned sincere, you know that?"

"I--"

"Don't say anything." The morning seems to be catching up with him. If he'd been happy to look at Steve a second ago, he's not anymore. Steve can't understand it; he frowns at him, concerned. "Just -- okay. Christ. We gotta get to HQ. We can't -- fuck around, Rogers, we're on a limited schedule here. You need to shower? Of course you do, you're covered in -- mother _fucker._ "

Bucky wrenches to sitting, running his fingers through his hair. Steve watches him with compounding bewilderment. He tries to reach out, but Bucky moves as though choreographed: he rolls away at the same speed as Steve, impelled to his feet by the gesture itself. "We gotta move. Meeting's at ten." He stoops to pick a t-shirt off the floor--

Steve grabs Bucky's wrist.

Bucky stops. He stares at him. Anger buds between them. Steve has no idea why. 

"Can you just talk to me for five minutes?" Steve asks.

One of Bucky's hands bunches around the shirt, tense and furious. "Why?"

"Why?" Steve repeats, bewildered, then -- "You wanted me to stay last night. Bucky -- you _wanted_ me to stay. Right?"

The crease in Bucky's forehead carves deeper, and then Bucky reaches out -- thumbs at Steve's lip again, like he can't help but do it. "Night before the vote," Bucky tells him, voice coarse. "I fucked you the night before the vote. That's actually the stupidest fucking thing I could have done. It shouldn't have happened, Steve, but that's on me. I'm not angry at _you._ "

Steve takes Bucky's hand in his own, looking up at him through his eyelashes. In the corners of his eyes, Steve takes in the full extent of the plating across his body. It follows carefully the line of where his pec should be, then breaks across his ribs, his abs, finally cutting away just above his hip. Steve didn't dare look this close last night and he won't dwell now, but it's a lot to take in. It's a lot to...

"You're allowed to want things," Steve says, instead of thinking too hard.

"Not when they affect the integrity of my work."

Steve laughs. Bucky frowns at him. "I'm sorry," Steve says, "it's just -- if people didn't think this was a possibility when they learned about me--"

"Don't even _imply_ that you planned for this."

"--either it doesn't seem like that much of a problem in the grand scheme of things, or--"

"Most people don't know about you."

"And I don't see why that is, by the way. What are you worried about happening?"

Bucky sighs hard. "It's about the integrity of the discussion, Steve, that's all it comes down to. I was always gonna be biased; no one was gonna see me walk in there saying, 'Guess what, Steve's been staying at my house for a week,' and expect me to make an impartial appeal on the behalf of -- whatever your wishes are."

"Don't you want to know what--"

"But now I…" Bucky goes on, talking over him, and pulls the shirt over his head when Steve stops talking. "Now I'm _invested_. In you. Staying. In this timeline. Which is what I _told_ you when you -- this was a bad move."

"It wasn't a bad move."

"Well it wasn't fucking good!"

Steve extends a hand again, but Bucky moves out of his reach. "No. We gotta go, Steve, I mean it. I don't regret _you_ ," he says, looking up, abrupt. "I'm glad that this happened. God fucking help me; that's the whole problem. I've lost sight of…" He shakes his head again and grabs pants from the floor. "Let's go. Take the first shower, I gotta walk the dog."

"Bucky, don't--"

"Try to leave me some hot water but don't sweat it too much. I've got backups."

" _Bucky._ Stop moving before I make you."

Bucky turns slowly, eyebrows high on his forehead.

"I don't know what's supposed to happen today," Steve says. "Natasha said you were supposed to explain." Something about it must strike him, because Bucky's expression drains into terrible neutrality. "The Board decides one way or another about whether to send me back, and then… what? We just… go on?"

Steve barely has time to cant his gaze up as Bucky approaches and stoops over the bed, finger at his chin, to press a gentle kiss against his mouth. "No matter what," he says, voice suddenly smooth, and Steve couldn't understand the change in him if he tried, "we'll come back here at the end of the day." It's warm, comforting, sincere -- or a facsimile. Steve wonders how often Bucky strives to give needed assurances these days -- as Captain America, as foster to kids, or as a man with a secret identity trying to keep up the ruse. "You're gonna have a lot of questions, so… we'll come back here and order takeout and go over the repercussions when we have a grasp on the decision. Alright?" He gestures loosely around the apartment as he steps away again, but he holds Steve's eye long, like he's making sure he feels better. "I dunno about today, but tomorrow -- you'll be here. That's what's gonna happen. Alright?"

Steve blinks through the doorway as Bucky disappears down the hall. "Okay," he says after him, but he can't shake the feeling he was just swindled out of something.

"Eat something," Bucky calls before he can quite get a grip, and it's a whispered few words of greeting to Burrito, the jingle of keys, and the closing of the door before Steve remembers what he'd even asked.

"I meant _in_ the meeting, but okay," Steve calls out to no one; then he pulls himself out of bed, going into the guest room to find some clothes.

Here, the cluttered furnishings no longer feel welcoming. Suddenly it all seems so liminal. Steve wonders what changed, and whether Bucky was right -- if it's changed, now, because of what they did.

  


***

  


Bucky comes back from his walk much less keyed up, maybe helped by the fact that Steve is dressed, showered, and halfway finished with his cereal. He slams the leash on the table and showers himself, and within twenty minutes they're leaving the house in complicated silence, Bucky looking at his own hands as though they're worthy of interest.

Just by watching him, the tension sloughs off Steve in steady degrees. Getting to know this Bucky, the Bucky of the future, has been something of a slow unveiling. More cracks have shown the closer Steve gets, and here on the subway as they veer into Manhattan, Steve sees with clarity the Bucky he's known for years. He recognizes in him now what he's been seeing for centuries: he'd looked like this in the 1930s, when he'd worried how his sisters would eat; and in the 2010s, when Natasha's comms went dark in the middle of a heist.

Now he's sitting here, worrying about Steve. He just doesn't want to tell him about it. He doesn't want Steve to be burdened, as always. 

Integrity of the discussion. Attention to the way things _should_ be. That, Steve understands. His shoulders relax as he regards Bucky with sympathy and compassion. If Bucky notices the way Steve looks at him, he doesn't shrug him off. He just lets Steve look at him until they get to Grand Central.

Bucky gets to his feet and nods them off the train. Steve follows dutifully, hands shoved humbly in his pockets. "Procedural cliffnotes," Bucky finally says to him, and Steve perks up, stepping closer behind. "We'll have to put you in an interrogation room first thing. It's not gonna feel pleasant, but it'll help to calm the tides. Me, Nat, Sam, and Maria will explain to the rest what we already know: that you are who you say you are, that you appeared on Friday morning at the site you disappeared; then we'll wait for things to settle down and invite you into the room for the formal proceedings. You'll get a debrief of the situation as we've understood it, which will probably sound weird -- it's formal, it's uncomfortable, but it's the best way to make sure we don't get messy. With me so far?"

Steve blinks at him mildly. "I used to lead the Avengers, Buck."

Bucky glances behind him, faintly amused. "Yeah. Sorry. I'm used to giving this spiel to kids who don't know better." Suddenly, he stops. Steve stops with him, struck by the look on his face. "How old were you then?"

Steve shakes his head, bewildered. "I dunno. Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?"

Bucky nods, his brow twisted in worried knots. Steve can't understand it, but dread blossoms in him with abrupt entirety. "Just a kid," Bucky mutters, seemingly more to himself than to Steve. He reaches up, maybe to touch a thumb to his cheek, but he redirects at the last second, grasping at the back of his neck instead. "Tough break," he says, and pulls him along as they set out of the station.

"I… guess," Steve says, stepping to follow. "How old were you when you went to war? Seems like it doesn't hold a candle to--"

But Bucky flinches, so Steve stops. "Basically, formal proceedings are that we'll debate the issue and then we'll vote," he says. It's a little strained, but otherwise it's as though there'd been no interruption. "Motions require unanimity to pass without contest, but they can pass with caveats on three-quarters agreement. Sometimes with eight yays it's back to discussion, but with seven or less we table it and return."

"Even in this case? We might not get a decision today?"

"Hoping that won't happen, but it's a little more complicated with you there. You hold a degree of authority that we're not used to taking into account with decisions like these. That gives you an advantage to assert your perspective in a way that may actually alter the Board's operations, plus -- you know, time travel… is messy. It's really messy, in a lot of ways. I really can't guarantee anything." Bucky sighs, as though the realization burdens him. "That said, I know the people in that room pretty well, and if you're strongly opposed to the outcome we decide, I can guess that we'll probably at least vote to keep the issue open until we can all find a mutually satisfying middle-ground." Bucky gestures at him helplessly. "I know you're not great at those."

"People always say that," Steve mutters bitterly. "I'm co-operative."

"You'll have the best time getting people on your side if you at least listen to what they're trying to say," Bucky says, ignoring him. "Not to rub salt in a half-open wound, here, but you lack a lot of context the rest of the Board has. Complications of time travel, ethics of it, our history of letting people self-determine… People feel the way they do thanks to a lot of experience." Bucky glares at him, and though it's a little playful, there's too much odd authority in it for Steve to quite parse the look. "I know you, too, and I know you can be wilful to a fault, so just--"

"Me?" Steve says dryly.

"Yeah," Bucky says back, and points him the other way down the street. "That's what I'm saying."

Steve turns to watch Stark Tower diminishing behind them. "Is that not--"

"Too obvious. Stark wanted it to be near the Tower so he could elevator in through the old Hydra tunnels, and we figured acquiescing to his request was gonna be the only way to get him to meetings. Plus Nat and Clint live nearby, Rhodey used to be around here... Carol's in Manhattan, too." Bucky nods him into a bank tower, propping open the door with one hand to show him through. "We're a little late largely on purpose, but there's still an off-chance we'll run into people you know in the lobby. Don't panic; let me do the talking. I already have Nat meeting me there to help, it'll be fine." 

They step into the elevator with three businessmen. In spite of the stark contrast in their wardrobes and intentions, no one gives either of them a second look. They all ride up together in silence, two of the men disembarking on 23, the third leaving at 26. 

Bucky's teeth worry at his lip, trying to find some loose skin to peel free. 

Steve stares at him openly, trying to figure him out. This is the Bucky who'd just been with him on the train, but it's far from the Bucky who'd explained the Board to him. It's far from the Bucky who'd walked into that bar, greeting everyone he saw with a lopsided grin; it's far from the Bucky who'd brought him into his apartment in the first place, five days ago. Who'd thrown caution to the wind and shot Steve the kind of smile that suggested he never worried at all; who's self-sufficient to a fault; who commands authority, who makes friends as easily as though it was breathing.

This private worry is a whole other side of him. Steve wonders how many people see him this way.

As though in answer, Bucky licks his lips and stands a little taller as the elevator slows to a stop on floor 32. He lets a slow breath out through his nose, gives Steve a tight smile. "C'mon," Bucky says, and scans a finger at the interior of Steve's wrist in a parting gift of intimacy as he steps out the door. 

He scans a key fob against a censor by the door. _Fortify Insurance & Financial_, reads frosted writing on the glass. Bucky pushes the door open and nods at the receptionist as they pass. "Vanessa."

"Jack," she says pleasantly. "Who's your friend?"

"Old army buddy."

"Sure." She says it with a razor-sharp grin. Steve nods pleasantly, but he leaves with the distinct impression she'd been prepared to lay him on his back in seconds flat if needed.

They walk through an office filled with endless cubicles. The place looks legitimately as though it could be an insurance agency, except for how workspaces are divided by bulletproof glass. The staff, sparsely populated, are also in suspiciously good shape. Steve can't imagine this place sells much insurance.

"You're not carrying any weapons, are you?" Bucky mutters, nodding in greeting at two security officers as he shows Steve through a door at the back of the office.

"No," Steve says absently, but as Bucky clears them through a checkpoint in a narrow corridor with his thumbprint, Steve sees why he asked: security guards and metal detectors greet them in front of a vast lobby. Conference rooms flank on either side, two hallways pushing long into the depths of the building. In the middle, glass walls serve as buffer for what looks like a classroom with long seminar tables.

"Well, if you are, put them in here." Bucky moves a basin toward him, removing a knife from his belt with nimble dexterity. "All other metal materials -- I saw you take the key, throw that in. Belt off… boots look okay. Nothing else? Sure?" Bucky withdraws another knife from his sock. "Go on, I'll be right there. They'll wand you on the other side regardless."

Steve watches him, perplexed by the return of that authoritative tone; the way he's shifted back into someone Steve doesn't quite recognize. He tears himself away, makes eye contact with the guard, and steps through the metal detector, getting thoroughly wanded over on the other side. He is cleared with a nod. "You're good," says the guard, gesturing Steve back to his waiting belongings.

Seconds later, the metal detector sounds loud and abrupt. When Steve looks over, he sees Bucky looking bored; the guard greets him with a smile, waves him over, and pats him down before going over him with the wand. Unsurprisingly, it screams over his left side. Bucky lifts his shirt, shows the guard his plating, then moves toward Steve to pick up his array of knives.

"You still carry those around, huh?" Steve asks mildly, surprised he's allowed them once inside.

"Only when I'm going to work," Bucky says with a wink, and turns into the lobby, twirling one of the blades idly around his finger before stashing it where it belongs. Steve watches him go, sees him greeting Natasha with that slick, inexplicable grin.

Bucky's disappeared on him. Now he's become Jack, a shrewd and distant man. Steve's walking toward Bucky and Natasha, still looping his belt through his jeans, when Sam -- _Sam_ \-- strides in from down the hall to meet them. 

A joyful sound breaks soft out of Steve's throat, and Sam must've heard it or figured out that he's there, because he turns to him with a broad, drawing smile. "There he is," Sam says, and before Steve's even fully finished breathing his relief he's returning Sam's hug in the middle of the lobby.

Steve's not used to the look of him yet, especially clean-shaven, but there's no doubt he looks happy. "How are you, Sam?" Steve says, holding him at arm's length.

"I'm good," Sam says, grinning wide. "We'll catch up later -- I mean it this time. Listen, no one's sorrier than me I couldn't talk to you the other day. I was following a lead I couldn't afford to lose."

"You know I understand. I was getting worried you--"

"Barnes fill you in?"

Steve blinks at the interruption. He should probably be used to these by now, but it still feels rude. "General procedural overview," he says, then pauses again when Sam turns sharply to Bucky. Bucky's looking somewhere else. "Is there something I…?"

But Natasha steps forward before anyone else can say anything. "I got him," she says to Sam, sidelong. "You and Barnes go get everyone started. I'll put him in Interrogation 4. I think everyone but Tony's in there by now, you should start the debrief."

Sam nods his agreement, looking from Bucky to Steve, and then he claps Steve on the shoulder with another welcoming smile. "See you later, alright? Dinner? Drinks? You don't drink. We'll figure something out."

"Sure," Steve says, watching him pull away. Sam gives Bucky a pointed look on his way across the room.

Bucky gives Steve a lopsided smile and starts walking backward after him. "Don't think too hard, alright?"

"Yeah," says Steve. "If there's one thing I'm known for, it's thorough consideration."

"You and me know better."

Something in the tone of it makes Natasha look between them. 

Bucky barely has a second to look cagey before he turns and walks away, leaving Steve to receive Natasha's ire.

"You didn't," she says, rounding on him.

Steve fights to keep his face neutral. "I… didn't."

She blinks. "I _really_ don't know why I keep expecting that to get better."

"I did alright yesterday," he protests.

"What happened yesterday?"

"Ran into Rectify. Gave Bucky details, he seems to think I did alright."

"Was this before or after you got naked?"

Steve desperately tries to find somewhere to put his eyes.

"Damnit," she says softly, examining him as though for evidence. Then she sighs and nods him down the corridor. "Well, I'm glad things are better between you, at least."

"From the way he's been acting this morning, I'm not so sure."

"Well," she says, and then trails off when a faintly familiar face appears in front of them. "Keep walking," she says sternly, but instead the guy's eyes flag on Steve, growing wider as he turns when they pass in the hall.

"Whoa," he says, and Steve recognizes him then: Peter Parker, all grown up. He's wearing glasses and a thin layer of stubble, but otherwise still looking younger than he should. Definitely younger than Steve.

Or so Steve thinks. He realizes he isn't sure.

"This the real deal?" Peter asks.

"Sure is," says Natasha.

He nods, feet dragging to a halt, balking a little. He raises his glasses to look at Steve, which gives Steve the impression he doesn't actually need them. "Guess you're alive after all, huh?"

"Guess so."

"Did you shrink? You seem... smaller."

"I get that a lot," Steve says.

"Is this the mandatory attendance thing?" Peter asks Natasha.

"Yep. And you'll play dumb, too, unless you want Tony to give you a dressing-down."

"Ugh," Peter says, then grins brightly at Steve. "Well, welcome back. Does Jack know?"

"He knows," Steve and Natasha say in unison.

"Well, okay then." He gives Steve a pursed smile. "Guess I'll see you later then." 

And he sets briskly down the hall as though uninterrupted.

"Well, that went better than expected," Steve mutters.

"Peter's the easy sell," says Natasha.

Something's bothering Steve, now. "Natasha."

"Mm?"

"Why is everyone acting like I've just walked into a trap?"

She glances at him quizzically. "It's not a trap."

"It sure feels like one."

"Are you sure? Or are you just nervous?"

Steve recognizes a deflection when he sees it. "You know, you're an easier read than you used to be."

"You just know me," she says, and shows him into a medium-sized interrogation room. "That doesn't count."

"That's not all it is. I can't read Bucky half as well."

"Barnes is… motivated to withhold things from you. He thinks it's for your own sake. I'm not so motivated."

"You are kind of trying to hide things. It's the half-effort I don't understand."

"Well," she says again, and suddenly she takes his chin in one hand and forces his head to the side. "This is a comms unit," she mutters, close against his face, finger pressing just outside his ear canal. "You probably shouldn't have it, but it'll help break up the monotony of waiting. I'll turn it on every once in a while so you can have a sense of the kinds of conversations we're trying to have -- you can hear us, but we can't hear you. I'll have to keep an eye on confidentiality with what I share, but -- believe me -- UFoE isn't trying to keep you in the dark unduly. We're just trying to follow protocols."

"I understand," Steve says, straightening his neck as Natasha withdraws. "What I don't understand is--"

"Hang in there, okay?" she interrupts, as though he hadn't spoken. "Things are gonna make a lot more sense to you soon, I promise." She points at the top right corner of the room. "Camera's up there. Careful; you're on TV."

Then she turns away and closes the door behind her, leaving Steve alone with a sense of growing dread.

  


***

  


"He's here?" 

It sounds in his ear so suddenly that Steve turns toward it, but then he remembers that he's not supposed to hear it at all, and scratches at his neck to cover.

"As in _here_ , here?" It's so unmistakably Tony; his voice sounds a little rougher, but Steve still has to fight a smile. He imagines Tony's face: eyebrows raised, hand splayed on the table as though in support, when really he's just trying to make a statement.

"Flesh and blood," Sam says boredly. Steve has the immediate impression that he is by now well used to fielding Tony's vitriol with tepid acceptance.

"You've seen him?"

"Couple times," Sam says. "It's him all right."

"You checked?"

"I checked, Natasha checked -- visual and digital. Jack sure thinks it's him."

"Oh, well, if _Jack_ thinks--"

"You know someone who'd have a better idea?" Bucky says. Steve thrills to hear the grind of his voice, God help him.

"Site had the right readings," Sam continues. "No longer inclined to argue the facts."

"So you've been to the site," says Tony.

"Been to the site. Data's right here." A clattering sound; Steve imagines he's thrown an interface screen across the table. "Can't pretend to make sense of it, but it--"

Abrupt silence; Steve's been cut off. He leans back in his chair and looks at the ceiling, trying to fight his reaction into something that won't show on camera. Finally he has to get up from the chair and pace, glancing at the camera every so often, wondering if they're watching him do it.

Tony's voice again, sounding sudden in his ear: "--breaking science--"

"Science broke Steve," Bucky says acidly. "Steve didn't break science."

"Oh, you've figured that out, huh? You finally get the kid who did this to get him to explain it to you?"

"Is it too early to break out the vodka?" Clint mutters suddenly, as though right in his ear. "It's not too early to break out the vodka."

"You used to be a scotch man," Maria says, barely audible. "What happened to you?"

"Scotch is for getting fucked up in a hurry or under the thumb of luxury," says Clint. "Vodka is for surreptitiously getting fucked up in bad meetings."

"Ah," says Maria.

"You started this," Tony's saying on top of it all.

"I said the science was bad, I didn't say _you_ were bad. Meanwhile--"

"Gentlemen," Rhodey interjects, sounding exhausted.

"--somehow you're making this about _me_ ," Bucky goes on, "while I'm working to make this _not_ about me."

"Of course it's about you," Tony says. "Did you or did you not find him in a farmer's market, take him _to your home,_ keep him secret from the rest of us--"

"I kept him safe is what I did, and Sam can back me up on it. Aurora from the fucking Brotherhood somehow tracked him when he was out alone, and it's a damn good thing he's had people watching his back. I do _not_ know how she tracked him, I don't want to think about how, and that's before we even get into the fact he laid out a Rectify lackie in broad daylight, in public, yesterday morning. Steve was bound to attract trouble, and I wasn't about to call an emergency meeting and turn this entire week into a shitshow. I followed protocol."

"You most certainly did not," Tony scoffs.

"I did. I isolated the threat, I minimized the risk to society and to him, I obtained the facts, and I presented them to the weekly board meeting as soon as I was able. You've trusted my word for the past eight years, Stark, I don't see why the sudden--"

"You know exactly why."

"For Christ's _sake,_ " Bucky bites acidly. "How many times do I have to repeat myself? This isn't about me or what I want. This is about finding the right solution for _everyone_. Including him. Listen..." Some shifting; Steve has the impression of discomfort. "Everyone can do me a favour by trying to take Steve's preferences into account, but don't... bother with mine. I'm the least relevant person to this whole ordeal. I'm abstaining from the vote, and I'm also from further discussion on this matter, except for clarifying remarks. You can put that in the minutes, Pete. I'm taking myself right out of this thing."

There is a slightly stunned silence. 

"You're _abstaining,_ " Tony finally says.

"Yeah."

"Your boyfriend finally comes back after eighteen years gone, after you spent eighteen years trying to figure out how to get him back, and you're abstaining from the vote about whether to remove him from your life again?"

"Yeah." Bucky's voice has been kicked down, a terrible, grinding thing. "That's about the long and short of it."

Another strained silence spans on.

"So does he know, then?" Stark finally asks, and though Steve can hardly believe it, he thinks he hears a hint of compassion under all that sound and fury.

Bucky exhales. "Does it matter if he does?"

"That's a no, then."

"He has all the information he requires to make an impartial decision about his future," Bucky says, in solid deflection. "My situation doesn't factor into your decision, and it shouldn't factor into his. He's taking into account all the same facts you are: we could send him back and try to change things for the better, or we could rip the world in half trying and make things considerably worse. Steve -- represents an opportunity. The issue is whether we're going to risk taking it, and that's all he needs to know." He exhales hard, as though expelling something. "Now can we focus on the issues instead of wasting precious time debating your perception of my ethical integrity?"

This time the silence is all the more final. Steve's been cut off again.

Bucky's been hiding something from him this whole time. Steve's heart pounds in his ears. He tries to piece it all together, hands clasped tight in front of him: _My situation._ The way Natasha had said it wasn't hers to tell.

Is Bucky -- leaving? Retiring? He had said he and Sam were trying to phase Captain America out of the public eye. Why would that impact whether or not Steve stays? Is he getting… _married_? Has Bucky been lying to him this entire time? Steve thinks of all the things he found in Bucky's drawers that didn't belong to him: the prescription for another name, the hair product Steve's sure he'd never use.

"Barnes," comes Natasha's voice, and Steve's breath halts in his chest. There's such sympathy in it that it derails his train of thought. The use of Bucky's name, his old one, his real one, gives Steve the impression she's winding him down. "Don't you _want_ him to stay?"

"I told you," he says, "I'm not voting."

"This isn't a vote. I'm asking--"

"I'm not discussing it either."

"Can you stop being a stubborn bastard for five minutes?"

"I already told you my point of view."

"Are you," she says loudly, "going to risk Steve leaving without knowing you want him to stay?"

Steve's own tension overshadows his read on the silence that follows.

"He knows that much," Bucky finally says. "I didn't tell him everything, but it's not like we spent five days not... talking. Alright? He knows -- look, it... we're off-track again. The issue is--"

The telltale silence of closed comms falls again. 

Steve clasps his hands against his mouth.

It doesn't sound like he's getting married.

  


***

  


When Natasha opens the door what must be twenty minutes later, Steve barely moves from the same position. He looks up at her, solemn, eyebrows peaked in the centre of his forehead.

"Should I bother to ask?" he finally says.

"No," she says softly, and nods him out into the corridor.

But Steve doesn't feel capable of moving. She stares at him until her shoulders collapse, then she steps into the room. "I had to protect my own operational integrity," she tells him quietly, sitting down across from him. "You're my friend. Barnes thinks he's protecting you, and I'm trying to do the same. I can't vote the way I want to unless you know you don't have all the information required to make a sound call yourself."

"And everyone else does?"

"They all have the info. Most of them won't take it into account."

"Will you?"

Her mouth twists. Steve thinks it might've been a smile, on another day. "Yes. And so will Sam, and so, I think, will Clint. Though we're not all voting the same way."

"You know this?"

"Eighteen years of talking about it," she reminds him with a knowing glance. "Pull yourself together enough to get through this vote. Then you can put Barnes in a room and get to the bottom of this if you want, but for now that's all you're getting. We have to explain some things about the present--" she leaves the room; Steve hastens to his feet and steps after her -- "that you're not going to like hearing, and it'd be great if you could pay attention. Try to compartmentalize your frustration, Steve, I mean it. He's acting like an idiot, but he could actually use the break."

"No."

"No you won't compartmentalize?"

"No I'm not discussing this until someone fills me in."

She turns on him, slowly. They stall in the middle of the lobby. "You're a smart cookie," Natasha says, voice low. "My guess is that you've already figured out what's going on. Am I wrong?"

"I'm not here to make presuppositions," Steve says. He's stonewalling, but so is she. "I'm here to get informed. No one is informing me. I have right to have a problem with that."

"If you're not going to walk in there and be productive, the vote will proceed without your input. You are invited as a _courtesy_ \--"

"You know, the more I hear about this organization--"

"--to present your preferences and your side of the story. There are people who are going to put stock in what you have to say. But if you're too--"

"Has the government's diluted version of democracy started to interfere with everyone's head? A vote made with information withheld is not a--"

"You're not getting it. You don't get a vote. You're a _witness_. This matter involves you personally, but, as in a trial, you're not part of the jury. Everyone in _there_ has the knowledge they need--"

"So I'm a prop."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

Steve blinks, stung by it. Natasha deflates, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "Look. The calls have been made. You don't have jurisdiction here. We're running on protocols and experience, of which you have no knowledge. The only thing kicking up a stink now is going to do is put you at a further disadvantage, so I _humbly_ suggest, Steve Rogers, that you shut your damn mouth and listen to what we're about to tell you. We're _trying_ to give you more information, even if it's not all the information. Are you going to accept it, or are you going to keep being petulant at your own expense?"

Steve shuts his eyes hard, turning his face to the floor. Natasha at least waits for him. He's thankful for that much.

"Is he going to be okay?" Steve mutters, raising his head with effort.

She sighs at him, sympathy pulling at her mouth. "No matter what the decision, you'll have a chance to help. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you get there."

His heart may be sinking, but he manages to nod. Natasha surprises him by patting kindly at his cheek. "We're rooting for you, you know."

"We'll see about that," he mutters, but he follows her across the lobby, hands bunched into fists against rising dread.

  


***

  


"United Federation of Enhanced board meeting #632 called, convened May 21, 2036." 

Peter's speaking into the interface, starting the meeting at Sam's behest. Steve's seated at the table between Bucky and Sam, but he's having a difficult time focusing. He sits with his hands clasped over his stomach, determined not to look anywhere but at the table if he can help it. 

"Time is 11:21," Peter goes on; "full board in attendance. Guest attendee is Captain Steve Rogers, alias the original Captain America, subject of unsolved Brief Zero. Obviously… solved now. Sort of."

Bucky'd looked at him only fleetingly when he'd come in, averting his eyes as though in penance. Steve had exhaled hard and done his best to ignore him as he'd stood through introductions: Bucky, Sam, Natasha, Clint, Maria, Peter, Wanda, Tony, and Rhodey all familiar to him, looking at him with varying levels of distrust. Rhodey's looking remarkably robust for a man pushing 70, though there's something sharp and cynical in his eyes that gives Steve the impression he's seen yet more since last they met. Steve had nodded at Clint, noticing a cyst on his shoulder -- big enough to protrude from his shirt, maybe from the repetitive strain from pulling back his bow. 

On the other hand, Wanda, far from looking old, simply doesn't look like a kid anymore. She'd looked at him with solid scrutiny, not accusatory or unkind, but just without that shine he remembers. He became another loss in her ledger, when he disappeared; another person she'd had to grow up without. 

Something panged in his heart, then. Bucky's not the only one whose life he's missed.

"Nice of you to join us," Tony had said then, blessedly breaking the terrible tension. "Almost eighteen years late, but you know. That could be fashionable. People here seem to be vouching for you, so I guess it's more gauche than rude. Although -- is gauche rude? Gauche _could_ be rude. GERTA, is 'gauche' a synonym for 'rude'?"

As GERTA informed him that 'gauche' was more tactless than it was rude, Steve noticed that Tony, too, had started to go grey. He couldn't help but notice the shocks of black that remained in his hair, as though his body protested to the notion of becoming Howard so much that it kept the similarities focused around the eyes.

As Tony had settled on calling him tactless, Steve had smiled at him, helplessly endeared. "It's good to see you too, Tony."

"God," Tony had breathed. It betrayed him a little; he'd frowned at the sound of it. "You sound the same, don't you? Do you? Is it fake?"

"It's not fake," Steve assured him.

"Steve's identity's been verified by every conceivable means," Sam said, and from there it was a whirlwind of banter and witty repartee, much of it revolving around physics references Steve didn't understand. At some point Sam had introduced him to the board members he didn't recognize: Carol, a cheerful-looking blonde woman who claimed to be a flying version of his replacement; Hank, a visibly blue mutant apparently on loan from a school upstate; and Miles, who apparently shares the role of Spiderman with Peter, taking after Sam and Bucky in their division of the role.

Introductions and expressions of skepticism and shock out of the way, the meeting proceeds. Steve tries to force himself to pay attention to Peter's diatribe, but can't help but be aware of Bucky beside him -- the way they both sit with rigid posture, avoiding each other's eyes.

"All regular agenda items have been postponed for discussion owing to the reappearance of Captain Steve Rogers eighteen years after disappearing, following his encounter with Enhanced John Doe on October 19, 2018," Peter goes on. "Captain Rogers was sealed out of time from this date until sometime around 0500 on May 16, 2036, when he appeared at Site Zero without any according distortion in the spatial-temporal field. Captain Rogers reports no disturbance in his perception of time; he has undergone a seamless transition from then to now without showing any outward signs of aging or molecular decay. We have convened to discuss whether to attempt to send him back to his proper time or to allow him to live out his natural lifespan in the present. Any preceding comments before we begin?"

"I voluntarily renounce my voting capacity in this matter and will not be contributing to official discussion," Bucky says.

"So noted," Peter says. Steve had known it was coming, but it still feels like a blow. "Any others?"

"We should define the vote parameters for the newbie," Sam says, nodding to Steve.

"Right," Peter says, and leans past Bucky to give Steve a tight smile. "Captain Rogers, do you know what we're voting on today?"

"Whether to send me back or keep me here," Steve sighs. "You need three-quarters to pass, but I'm not sure which one you're passing. I'm also not sure I understand the pros and cons of sending me back versus keeping me here as you all understand them." He smiles, thin and bitter. "It has been brought to my attention that I have not yet been provided with all the facts as they pertain."

Peter clearly hears his tone, but keeps a straight face as he nods. "The Board keeps inaction as its default. To vote 'yay' is to vote for action -- in this case, sending you back. A 'nay' vote means we accept the present timeline as factual, which means you're to live out your lifespan from 2036."

"So why would any of you vote 'yay'?" Steve says. "Obviously I want to go back to my own timeline, but I don't see why you'd vote for it if there's risk."

"Well, keeping you here could be a positive or a negative. We have no way of knowing whether your hypothetical presence from 2018 onward could have made circumstances better or worse today. Some people here seem to think sending you back could make a positive difference." His eyes flicker over to Sam.

But maybe for some procedural reason, Sam doesn't acknowledge the implication. He just meets Peter's eye and shifts in his chair with bored authority. 

"Okay," Steve says, annoyed. "What kind of a positive difference are we talking about? I mean, I, uh…" He scratches at the back of his neck, wincing. "Bruce Banner notwithstanding, you all seem to have made it here pretty intact without me. I told Bucky before how pleasantly surprised I am at how, uh, alive everyone is. How much better could it _get_?"

"Better," Clint tells him darkly. "You're looking around at the powerful and the wealthy. Us and them?" He thumbs over his shoulder, and Sam gestures Steve to the side and points out the window; Steve leans to see what he's talking about. Another billboard, affixed on the roof of a nearby building, boasts a Rectify insignia, unmistakeable to him now. "We rule while everyone else suffers."

Sam looks him dead in the eye, and for the first time since he sat down, Steve feels assured: there's not an ounce of dishonesty in him, from what Steve can tell. "We live in a high-powered world," Sam explains. "Weird shit happens to us like getting stuck in time, but that's the thing -- we usually survive that weird shit. Since things started heating up a quarter-century ago, the casualties around our activities, the activities of mutants, and around backlash, have been overwhelmingly civilian." Sam gestures around the room. "We're here because we knew where to be and how to win, but there's not a single person in this room who didn't lose someone in the process."

Peter taps at his interface and then slides it to Bucky. Bucky passes it along to Steve, not looking at him. "Nearly 11 million people have died in the United States alone by way of extra-terrestrial or mutant effect in the past 24 years," Peter explains. Steve sees it clearly on the graph: in the past decade alone, casualties seem to be going up exponentially every year.

Steve blinks, disbelieving. "Eleven _million?_ "

"Carol's brother," Sam says. "Peter's aunt. Clint lost a son."

"Half of Sam's extended family got taken out four years ago," Natasha says, before Steve can focus too hard on Clint's bowing head.

Now everyone's avoiding his eye. Steve sighs hard and leans back in his chair, elbow propped on the arm, hand over his mouth.

"We're alive because we knew how to fight," Rhodey says, looking straight at him. "Not everybody did."

"And some of us feel like if you were around, things might've gone different," Sam says.

"I'm sorry," Steve says. He feels debilitated by helpless compassion.

"But some of us," Clint says, "believe it's not worth risking the potential collateral in sending you back. That trying to go back in time sounds like a pipe dream encouraged by grief and delusion."

"Maybe you don't want to insult the Chair," Sam mutters under his breath.

"I told you I'd chair."

"I'm Chair," says Sam.

"Okay," Steve says quietly. He risks a glance at Bucky, but Bucky's still not looking at him. "Then what are the risks in sending me back?"

"Total annihilation," Natasha says calmly.

Steve blinks at her. "Surely not _total_ annihilation."

"Total annihilation," Tony agrees. The table turns to look at him, with the exception of Rhodey, who merely looks at the ceiling with his back turned to Tony instead. "The thing is, Toto, that time only moves in the one direction: forward. Think of it like a river. You can be -- and, I suspect, were -- floated down a river without seeing much of a disturbance in its operations. It's already going that way; you're just a passenger, whether you're out of time or not, I guess. But if you want to go the other way, you need a lot more force to make it happen. You might have followed the current here, but sending you back is a rupture." He snaps his fingers, hard. "We do it wrong, and spacetime cracks open like--" 

His voice falters, but Tony gestures at him. Steve knows what he's referring to: the Chitauri in 2012, or the wormhole that introduced it.

Steve rubs his eyes. "Right."

"But if we do it right," says Sam, "that doesn't happen."

"That's a big 'if,'" says Tony. "We don't even totally know how he got here. If there was no disturbance at the site, that means there was no wormhole--"

"That's not what we're debating," Sam interrupts. "We're debating the decision, not the science. The decision assumes it's possible to achieve without tearing the fabric of time apart--"

"No it doesn't," Clint and Rhodey say in unison, and then point at each other in camaraderie. "It very much informs our individual decisions that that kind of risk is inherent in the process," Rhodey goes on. "Can Stark confirm--"

"Look me in the eye and ask me," Tony says behind him. "I'm right here."

"Stark _can't_ confirm," Rhodey corrects tersely, not turning in his chair to so much as glance at him, "that sending Steve back could ever be foolproof. He'd be the first to tell you science doesn't work like that--"

"Stop talking about me like I'm not here," Tony mutters.

"--and that there is no way he could _ever_ guarantee that Steve could safely be sent back through time without seriously risking dimensional collapse. That risk matters to the vote."

"I agree," says Clint.

"We don't do things because they're safe," Wanda says quietly. Steve quirks an eyebrow and leans back in his chair to try to catch a glimpse of her. Whatever had been left of her accent when he disappeared has been completely ironed out, replaced by a slight midwestern lilt. 

She catches his eye and offers him a restrained smile, and Steve feels something like optimism spark in his chest. He's not sure he's ever going to stop feeling this way on seeing people for the first time: like he's newly being recognized after a long, long time away.

"No we don't," Sam says.

"But we don't pose risks to innocent populations," Carol says, with a bit of a laugh. "They get that enough from the rest of them." She looks at Steve with a grimace. "Sorry. I know you want to go back."

"I didn't mean that statement as binding," Steve says. He glances at Sam, who just clenches his jaw. "Obviously this is a complicated issue. Natasha mentioned ethics in conjunction with mutant power -- I guess there are some limitations on even manufacturing the science to make it happen?"

"That's a separate consideration," Sam says again.

"No it's not," Clint counters loudly. "Steve's right. It's against Federation constitution to even _consider_ \--"

"Clint," Natasha says quietly, setting a hand on his leg.

"Don't handle me," he snaps. "These considerations matter. We're under an ethical obligation--"

"We're not suggesting we try and invoke this power in a person," Natasha says.

Clint looks at her like he's seeing her for the first time. "Are you actually voting 'yay' on this?"

"No comment," she says mildly. "I _am_ saying, though, that we've been talking about artificially countering mutant powers for a while."

"We have passed no measure on that front," Hank says. Steve has the impression they've been discussing this particular issue for some time.

"Absent the boy who actually did this," Natasha says, "and taking it into likely consideration that he now works for people we would consider our enemies--"

"We have no proof of that," Rhodey argues.

"--it would be worth our while anyway to create the technology to prevent this from happening again. And if we're coming up with an antidote, or a vaccine, or whatever, we'll already have enough of an understanding of the science involved to make sending Steve back at least a _possibility._ " She shrugs. "I don't see the science itself as unconstitutional. I think that's a disingenuous representation of our code."

"I agree," Tony says, but he doesn't sound happy; Steve watches as he sets himself down into his chair and puts a hand over his mouth, staring at Steve in open contemplation. An uneasy silence falls; it doesn't take much to realize that Steve's become the subject of analysis for most of the eyes around the room, Miles and Wanda leaning back in their chairs to try to get a glimpse of him before moving back to the table.

"It sounds to me like we're ready for a vote," Peter says, when the silence hangs just a little too long. "Steve, I think a lot of the people at this table want to hear your reasoning. If you were a board member, what would your call be?"

Steve looks to Bucky, who doesn't look at him. He just picks up an interface screen and shifts it around in his hand, planting one edge of the screen and then the other to the table, then the next, then the next, in a never-ending sequence.

"Are you really going to make me do this?" Steve says quietly.

Bucky doesn't answer a long time, but from the way his eyes shift over, Steve knows he understood. "Yeah," he finally murmurs, looking back at the table.

Steve stares at him, unmoving. Then he takes a terrible, steadying breath, and sets a grounding fist against the table.

"The first time I came out of the ice," Steve begins, voice deepening into his Captain America voice before he knows how to stop it, "Nick Fury kept finding me being unhappy. Eating oatmeal alone, or reading F. Scott Fitzgerald. And he'd say, 'the only way out is through.' Gave me a McMuffin or a copy of Harry Potter instead." Steve smiles, wistful. "I guess Nick's probably dead now."

"Twelve years ago," Natasha says.

Steve nods. "Well, his legacy lives on… or Robert Frost's does, I guess." He looks up -- meets Natasha in the eye and then at Clint, a little afraid to look anywhere else. "We move forward, not back. I can't make the call on whether researching this technology, this time-travel replica, or… whatever it is... if the research is useful. I think that's a separate issue, and not one I can comment on. But if the vote is on whether or not we're sending me back through time to try and alter the path of things, at the risk of tearing the fabric of… whatever I was trapped in..." Steve shakes his head. "No. That doesn't sound right to me. I regret, more than I can say, that I haven't been around; that people have missed... me. And that I have missed them. But I've had those regrets before, and I know I can live with them."

Abruptly, Sam clears his throat. Steve blinks up at him, but it's Bucky's tightening fist against the table that keeps his interest. "Uh…" Steve says distractedly, then shakes his head back to attention. "I know my vote doesn't count, but that's… my read. For what it's worth. Based on the information I have, if I were in your position… I'd be a no."

He risks a look at Bucky and sees his teeth sunk into his lip; hears the gentle shudder in the way he exhales. But the second Bucky starts to look back at him, Steve moves his face away in perfect time, partially too scared to look at him and partially too angry. He doesn't want to know what he'd see in him now. Not after he forced his hand into making this call.

His statement is met with dead silence for the longest time. 

"I'm sorry, Steve," Sam finally says. The mood in the room becomes restless and harsh. "I have to disagree."

Though he doesn't know why, Steve feels the floor fall out from under him. 

"If we conduct the research and have the technology," Sam continues, "it's our responsibility--"

"Responsibility," Bucky croaks, taking the offensive.

"--to take advantage of an opportunity--"

"Who is this about?" Bucky says.

"Don't think you have a leg to stand on when it comes to personal investment in an issue," Sam tells the centre of the table. The fact that he won't look at Bucky makes this a million times worse. "We know Rectify has tech labs. We know the Brotherhood has a hell of a lot of power and shifting alliances to boot. They might choose to raid Rectify for their power reserves--"

"They don't need them," Tony says, before Bucky can get his mouth around his next outburst. "If I'm right about what time travelers can do--"

"You're not," says Sam.

"Come on," Bucky says harshly.

"I thought you were staying out of this," Sam tells him. "We as an organization have to stay competitive to stay on top."

Bucky winces. " _Competitive_? Are you hearing yourself? This isn't you, Sam, come on."

"Steve is our best shot at understanding what needs to happen," Sam goes on, as though Bucky hadn't spoken, "to prevent our adversaries from abusing time travel the way we know they are capable of. Steve is also, if we can send him back right, our best shot at preventing the destruction of countless lives. If UFoE wants to continue to position itself as guardians against abuse, corruption, and destruction of innocents, then we owe it to the people we protect not to be taken by surprise when the enemy inevitably figures this out before we do. That means both doing the science, and implementing it. In a world where Steve consents to being our catalyst for experimentation, I would vote yay. So under those conditions, it's a yay from me."

Beside him, Bucky shakes his head, staring at Sam like he's just betrayed him. Control seems to be spinning away; Steve can't figure out where to turn.

"That's one vote for yay," Peter says mildly, making a note on his interface. "Carol?"

Carol's eyes flit from Sam to Steve to Bucky, her lips pursing apologetically. "I agree with Captain Rogers. What's done is done. We owe it to the people we serve to look forward. I think the research is valuable, but the risk to sending Steve back is too high. We don't need to go that far to develop an understanding of the tech." She looks to Peter. "I vote nay."

"That's one vote yay, one vote nay," Peter says. "Hank."

"I vote nay," Hank says readily. "Often when we try to make things better, we wind up making them worse. The technology is better never discovered. Now that we know Captain Rogers is safe, we should close the file and move on."

"That's two nay," says Peter. "Natasha?"

Natasha looks Steve dead in the eye. "The only way out is through," she says quietly. "I vote nay."

"Nay," Clint says easily, without waiting for Peter's prompt. "At this point, I can't even consider trying to look backwards. That way madness lies."

Peter nods. "Four nay, one yay. Maria?"

"Nay," she says, smiling thinly at Steve. "Technology's too dangerous, not worth the risk. Got this weird déjà-vu happening here. Couldn't say why. Might rhyme with Bultron."

"Five nays," Peter reports. He taps nervously on the glass and looks to Stark. "Tony?"

But Tony's not saying anything. He's holding eye contact with Sam, all the way down the length of the table. "I vote yay," he finally says, and Sam narrowly bites down against a victorious smile. "Might be a first that I agree with Wilson, but then again, Steve Rogers is sitting at this table, so I guess it was a weird day to start. I think we gotta look into it. We got crazy potential for strength and growth here and there's no way we can give it up. We run some tests, perform an actual risk assessment, not dismiss out of turn a legitimate option for global betterment and all that..."

"We can do that without ripping the fabric of spacetime," Rhodey says resignedly. It's the first time he's responded to Tony directly.

"Not properly we can't," Tony says, matter-of-fact.

Rhodey scoffs. "I vote nay," he says, "needless to say."

"That's six nays and two yays," Peter reports. "Wanda?"

Wanda leans back in her chair and catches Steve's eye. "I'm also a nay," she says, giving him a small, apologetic smile. "Not because I haven't missed you, or because I think the science is too dangerous. It is purely out of a desire to look ahead."

"I understand," Steve says quietly. It's not gonna pass. It can't pass. He has the consensus behind his assessment.

"Miles?" Peter asks.

"Nah," Miles says. "I can't see it. We should be paring down, not gearing up. Nay for me."

"I," Peter says, looking down at his tablet, "also vote nay. Jack."

"I abstain," Bucky says, but Steve already knows the point is moot; the motion's long since failed, and Steve knows anyway -- that he wants him to stay.

What's Bucky not telling him? 

What does Sam know?

"Alright," Peter says, leaning back in his chair. Steve barely hears him. Blocks feel to be falling into place as he makes the connections in his head. "On the matter of Federation case number 09-K, the motion on whether to explore the full potential of a wormhole facilitating the time travel of Captain Steve Rogers is denied. The position of the United Federation of Enhanced is that the risks inherent in time travel means letting the wormhole die, if it exists, with the consequence of trapping Captain Rogers in the present timeline. We regret this consequence, but it is necessary to maintain the integrity of the present. The question of whether to pursue partial research on Site Zero is a separate measure, to be discussed under file number 09-L."

"Motion to postpone all further business to next week," Sam mutters at once.

"Seconded," Bucky croaks.

"Quick vote, show of hands," Peter says, and all but his own go up. "Motion passed. This meeting is adjourned. Matters of business concluded are as follows…"

But Bucky spins out of his chair before Peter even finishes. Steve doesn't hesitate to follow him from the room. His hands pressed into fists, he and Bucky breeze down the hall, feet falling together in perfect rhythm. Steve's four steps behind him, not closing the gap. His anger churns deeper, taking root in him, growing tendrils. 

He's furious with Bucky. He's not sure he's ever been angrier with him than now. Bucky let him walk into this situation, he _cornered_ him into this call, he kept him in the dark intentionally, kept him in ignorance, kept him--

Bucky leads them into a small meeting room and turns to face him as Steve slams the door.

"What the hell was that?" Steve begins. His voice is low in his chest.

"It was the best--"

"It was a unilateral call. You did what _you thought_ was best. You did what was best _for you_. It was not a negotiation, it was not a conversation. For all your rhetoric about information and integrity--"

"It was none of your business, Steve."

"It was _my business_! The entire meeting was about my business! Letting me influence policy decisions _about me_ without giving me all the facts was beyond arrogant, Bucky. It encouraged ignorance--"

"You didn't have a vote," Bucky says, enunciating clearly, "and everybody else had the information you lacked."

"And yet the fact that _Sam_ disagreed with me--"

"He's not the person you left, either."

"Oh, God! When are you gonna quit holding this over my head?"

"I'm not holding anything over you. I'm stating the facts. You haven't been here, Steve. He doesn't follow anyone. And the fact that you think he does tells me everything I need to know about _your_ point of view. You're unbalanced. You wanna stand there and accuse me--"

" _Unbalanced?_ I just gave up my own preferences for the sake of this board--"

"Is that what you did?"

"Yes! It is! You wanna jump ahead twenty years and see how it feels? Bucky, I want to go _home._ "

"I know how it feels."

"And wouldn't you have done anything to go back? To _change_ things? To make things _better_?"

"So the truth comes out." Bucky's voice has dropped low, but Steve can tell he's just livid. "Jesus fucking Christ. Your little pontification--"

"This isn't about what I did, Bucky. This is about the information you withheld so I'd make the call you wanted me to. You owe me the truth. After you fucked me and dragged me into this meeting without the first clue of what I was walking into, you sure as shit owe me--"

"Steve, I'm _dying._ "

The tension drains from Steve's body at once. 

He feels his lips part. The rest of him is numb. 

Bucky rolls his eyes, kicking a rolling chair toward him. "Sit down before you pass out."

"I'm fine," Steve counters, but even the words make him dizzy. He shuts his eyes hard against crashing vertigo and collapses into the chair after all.

Bucky raps his knuckles against the table, looking off into the corner. It's like he can't quite stand to face him. "It's not like it's hard to see. Way you watch things, I kinda thought you might've figured it out."

"Why would I think that?" Steve wishes he could see straight, to look at him without spots. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"

"Because it's none of your business."

Steve stares at him. "You keep saying that. The fact that you're dying is _absolutely_ my business."

"No, it isn't."

"It is."

"Oh, my God, _Steve._ "

"What did you think was gonna happen?" Steve feels the words falling out of his mouth, but he can't say he intended to say them. "I agree to stay, and then suddenly you die on me? I would've found out then, why would you--"

"I don't know!" Bucky shouts at him. "I have no idea what I've been thinking since you got here!"

Steve breathes at him, hard. 

The world clarifies. 

He can do something about this. Not everyone's on Bucky's side.

Bucky catches him before he's even finished getting to his feet. "The fuck do you think you're going?"

"Gonna go talk to some people," he says emptily. "There must be something--"

"Steve, Jesus _Christ._ Sit down."

Steve throws Bucky's arm off him, but he's as swift as ever. His prosthetic lands on Steve's shoulder and forces him back into the chair, one-handed. "We're not done," Bucky mutters, wincing as he rotates his arm in its socket.

Steve watches him pace awhile, not sure what else to do. Anger rises, then falls without spilling over. He just wants to touch him, but he's too afraid to.

"What's happening, Bucky?" he finally says, weak. "What's wrong with you? Explain it to me, please. Why isn't this treatable?"

"Gradual muscular degeneration," Bucky says. It seems a bit quick out of his mouth until Steve sees the way his lips form the words. His mouth barely moves; he might've practiced this speech a thousand times. Talking to Steve in his empty apartment, saying the words until they were part of him. "I was never meant to be able to handle the level of replacement Hydra did on me. T'Challa's people had to create new synthetic tendons between muscle and bone after Siberia, but the strain of the arm was still too high -- the replacements started snapping. I assumed it was regular hardware shit, but when Stark went in to replace my arm, they found more damage than expected. Turns out muscles aren't built to withstand that kind of strain. Synthetic tendons don't carry the load. It got real bad in a hurry, so I got the whole works replaced, but… the synthetic muscle systems haven't been enough to absorb the strain." 

When Bucky finally looks at him, it's with an awful clarity: a stubborn fightlessness, wretched in its honesty. Steve wants to take him by the shoulders, to shake him until he reacts, to scream in his face, to beg at his feet. "Shit just keeps on breaking down, Steve, year after year. The serum's getting weaker. Less and less regenerates, and I've had too much replaced to be able to back out now. There's no more keeping it at bay. This just is, now."

"No it isn't," Steve growls.

Bucky rolls his eyes.

"Take," Steve says slowly, "the damn arm off."

"It wouldn't do any good."

" _Why not?_ "

"We passed that exit a few years back. I can take off the arm, but I can't remove my whole left side. Hell, I already did. Turns out that kills a guy."

"Don't you joke about this."

"And this, Steve? The way you're reacting right now? _This_ is exactly why I didn't tell you." Bucky gestures at him in a way that makes Steve feel pathetic. "You think this is about you, but it's not. All the choices I made to get here, I made with a complete understanding--"

Steve shakes his head. "I refuse to believe you intended for this."

"Not for this. But I intended to keep support up for the people who needed it--"

"At the cost of your _life_?"

"You know better than anyone," Bucky says with a wavering voice, "what the cost of freedom is."

Steve leans back in his chair. Bucky really seems to believe that. He really does.

"How long?" Steve croaks at him.

"At the rate the serum's slowing down," Bucky murmurs, "maybe three to five. I'll get two more of work, if I'm lucky."

"Three to five _years_?"

"No, decades. What do you think?"

" _Bucky._ "

"What?" Bucky says sharply. "How are you gonna make this about you now?"

"This isn't right," Steve says. "There's just nothing they can do?"

"Who specializes in saving the lives of half-synthetic superheroes that isn't Hydra or its spinoffs?"

"Stark, for one."

"Oh, for Christ's -- the day I let Stark try to save me is the day I--"

"Why isn't he -- _Bucky_. Is he withholding this from you?"

" _No_!"

"Then what--"

"I told him not to!"

It takes Steve a long time to understand the words.

Bucky looks him in the eye. Steve holds it, at a loss. He doesn't understand. He doesn't-- "Why aren't you fighting?" he asks, voice breaking.

"You're not listening to me."

"There's something that can help you, or Sam wouldn't have--"

" _Sam_ is an idiot and an idealist, just like you. God help you both. Maybe you noticed: he's not in my life anymore."

"You kicked him out _for this_?"

"No." Bucky exhales hard, face falling toward his feet. "You know why we didn't work out, come on."

"He's right."

"Oh -- _Steve_ , Jesus. Really?"

"You're supposed to live to be eighty--"

"I was supposed to do a lot of things!"

"I'm saying it doesn't have to _be_ this way, Bucky."

Finally, a quiver in Bucky's chin. Steve had wondered if he was reacting at all. "I go back, give you the info you need to stop this thing, you _do_ live to be eighty."

"I'm not dealing in what-ifs!" And Bucky's angry with him now; Steve can see it on his face. "We go down that road, we don't come back from it. You wanna tear open a door to 2018? Why not 1944? Why not 1939? Smuggle ourselves away so we never enter the war in the first place, why not?" 

Steve feels himself wincing, and Bucky must see it. He points at him, stepping forward. "So that's somehow unpalatable to you, but what's 20 years between friends?"

"I'm not talking about trying to change history," Steve says. " _This_ is changed history. I was never supposed to be gone in the first place--"

" _Neither one of us_ were supposed to _live_ to 2018, Steve!"

"It's -- I'm saying it's different. The door between 2018 and here has already been made once--"

"You -- no." Bucky pinches his nose, exhales hard. "Okay, I get it. You straight up don't understand what's involved in getting you back to your own timeline. _If_ that door between moments ever existed -- and that's not what the evidence suggests, by the way -- you think it's somehow travelling with you? If you're talking about the point of contact between October 2018 and May 2036, we've passed that exit six days ago." He points behind him. "To get you back, we have to tear an entirely new door, _adjacent_ to an existing wormhole, which is the worst idea ever invented in this planet's long fucking history of bad ideas. Even if we manage to do it -- if we can make it happen and the world _doesn't_ somehow funnel into it and cease to exist -- we still have to _pray_ that we get the timing right and that you don't walk through the door and wind up in 1996." He throws an arm up. "And what then? You're not supposed to be out of the ice for another decade and a half, but there's Captain America, out of time again."

"Maybe I find you," Steve says. "Get you out of Hydra. Does it matter if we miss if it means you stay alive?"

Bucky looks at him with bugging eyes. "So you want me to support sending you back, now that you've just told me you intend to fuck with time to the fullest extent possible."

"I intend to -- do whatever it takes to make sure you suffer less, Bucky. That's my directive, and always was."

"There is no fixing this." He turns his finger in the air. "This _happened_. For better or worse, this is my _life_ now. You wanna go back, appease your fucking savior complex and take all this from me? Take what I've built -- my friends, my businesses, my life's work? You want to deprive me of another fucking choice, Steve? You know what, go right ahead. I clearly can't stop you. But if you're really willing to throw away my life for the sake of your so-called _values_ , I don't want anything to do with you."

"Bucky, I'm talking about saving your life!"

"I don't want to be saved!" Bucky throws an arm wide, decisive. "Did that ever occur to you? All I want for the time I have left is to do the things that make me happy. For the love of God, would you really deny me that?"

"I'm not trying to deny you anything! There must be something, a middle ground--" 

Steve recoils when Bucky slams his fist against the table. 

"You're just the goddamn same," Bucky says in a low voice. "Let this go. Let it go or I'm gone. I'm not gonna waste my time arguing with someone intent on playing at God."

"Bucky, I can't," Steve says, voice cracking. "I can't just sit here and wait for you to die."

"So you're pushing on this that hard."

"I have to." Steve's voice drops, too. He's pleading with him, why can't he see that? He's desperate to make Bucky understand. "I'm not going to let this--"

"Then you're out of my house. You're out of my life. I don't need this and I'm not gonna enable you to tear down what I've built. I can't tell you what to do, but if you're really gonna try to go back twenty years just to try to 'fix' _my choices_ \-- I hope you choke." He shakes his head at him, looking Steve up and down. "Don't come near me again."

Bucky pushes toward the door. Steve tries to catch him, horrified, but he winds up splayed backwards, collapsing back into the chair. 

"Bucky," Steve chokes out, but Bucky turns to him, brow dense.

"My name is Jack," he tells him quietly.

Then, slamming the door behind him, he walks away and leaves Steve to languish, bereft and alone.

  



	11. His Voice A Gorgeous Instrument

  


### September, 1940

"You only ever think of yourself. You know that?"

Steve looked up, shocked and confused. Bucky shrugged the sack off his shoulder, looking sunkissed and furious as he let it fall to the ground. "You thought you could hide this from me?" Bucky brandished the draft board registration form. "You think if I didn't get it, I just wouldn't have to register?"

"I didn't," Steve began, but Bucky's fist hit the table before he could finish.

" _You didn't think_ ," Bucky hissed at him. "Goddamned recruiter sneaks up on me at work today and starts talking to me like I'm a defector. What've you got to say about that, huh? Did it occur to you there might be consequences to _me_ when you decided to -- what'd you even do, set it on fire? Tear it up? What?"

"I didn't touch it."

"You didn't _touch it_."

"I didn't," Steve said defiantly. "I didn't touch it. I've never seen it. I thought you were spared, Bucky, that's the God's honest truth. I thought that God and country both were paying me back for rejecting me from the Army by rejecting you too, and I'm not sorry for being thankful for that. Not for a second, I'll say that much." He raised his chin and looked Bucky straight in the eye. "But I didn't touch it, because you never got it. You never registered our new address with the city when we moved. Remember? Did they say the telegram was delivered or not?"

The transformation of Bucky's face might've been comical, if it hadn't hurt so damn bad.

"But I would have," Steve said. He wasn't sure why. Maybe to hurt him back. "If I'd gotten my hands on it first, I probably would have done as you said. I'd have burned it or torn it up or frozen it and hit it into shards, and I wouldn't have thought of myself the whole time, because I'd have been thinking of _you_. God knows I think this war is necessary, and _just_ \-- but you don't. And if you don't believe in it then you won't be safe, and I won't let them take you without a goddamned fight."

"Steve--"

"So I'm as awful as you say. Only I'd have done it because I care." Steve squares his jaw in blatant challenge, as though begging Bucky to tear him down. "That's the person you know me as. And it doesn't seem that right for you to march in here and pretend like you're surprised about it when you've known that all along. We protect each other." Steve swallowed hard, throat hoarse with flagrant conviction. "That's what we do. God knows I barely shoulder my share."

Bucky blinked at him with slack shoulders and a sorry face. "It's not protecting me to put me in trouble with the state," he finally said.

Steve shrugged and averted his eyes. "Well, I wouldn't have thought that far."

Affection dawned slowly, pulling at the corner of his mouth. Steve looked away gaze rolling to the ceiling. "So what you're saying," Bucky said, suddenly crawling across the table toward him, "is that I was right."

"You were not right," said Steve, but he couldn't take his eyes away.

"I was right about everything, is what I heard."

"In a hypothetical scenario, maybe. In actual life, no. You were not right at all." 

Steve was forced to look at him when Bucky took his collar in his fist, smiling lewdly across the table. "I was right," Bucky said against Steve's lips, and then kissed him soft and with all the affection in the world until Steve was shifting his hips where he sat in the chair, leaving Bucky laughing into his mouth.

"That's all that matters to you, isn't it?" Steve said. "Being right."

"That and staying alive," he said. "In that order. Don't get me wrong."

Steve smiled at him, running a fond thumb over the part of his lips and then up across his cheek. His gaze found the abandoned test on the table. "They gave you one, then, huh?" he muttered, abandoning Bucky for the pamphlet.

"Yeah." He was back across the table and on his feet in instants, looking sheepish and a little afraid. "Gotta send it in."

"I hear they have aptitude tests."

"Yeah."

"You gonna flunk 'em?"

Bucky exhaled hard and collapsed into a chair. "Don't think they're that kind of tests. Jimmy Trevante said…"

He didn't go on, but Steve knew what he'd said because he was there: the better they think you are, the longer you're liable to survive.

"Damn it," Steve sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I was gonna offer to take 'em for you."

"That would've gone awfully. They'd have pegged me as a true patriot, put me on the front lines."

"Nah. With my luck, they'd have rejected you just because I was involved." Steve snapped his fingers. "Hey, here's an idea -- you get called up, I'll go in your stead."

"You won't," Bucky said sharply. "We protect each other, alright? I at least have better odds of survival than you." He sighed again, finger picking at a nick in the table: those filthy fingers, calloused and broad. "Hell, Rogers, maybe it'd be better if it was me."

"It's not," Steve said fiercely, and it was stinging enough that Bucky'd looked over. "Or it… won't be. It wouldn't be, if you got… drafted."

"Jesus," Bucky whispered, tipping his head all the way back. He always looked so divine to Steve, with his neck exposed.

"I'll make dinner," Steve said, to distract them both, and then he rose from his chair and hobbled uselessly toward the fridge. 

Bucky looked him up and down like he hadn't remembered his joints were flaring up until just then. "I'll do it," he said.

"You just worked eleven hours. I better be good for something."

"You hate playing housewife."

"That's because I'm not your _housewife,_ " Steve began, but the last word turned breathy as Bucky whisked him into his lap; and Bucky kissed the breath out of him, and the living hell besides -- in thanks or in apology, or in pre-emptive parting.

  


***

  


Somewhere in the real world, someone is saying his name.

Steve blinks up, wondering if it's Bucky -- but it's not. It's Sam, beautiful Sam, calm and concerned. Twenty years too old. Helping Steve to his feet.

Steve sighs and squeezes an automatic hand at his shoulder, though whether in appreciation or a need for steadiness he's not sure. "I need," he says, then hangs his head when his breath sticks stupidly in his chest. "I need resources. I'm sorry to ask. Bucky never set me up, and I'm pretty sure I just got kicked out. I have a bank account, I just need access--"

"You do," Sam says, and puts an arm around his waist. Steve can't figure out why, until he drags his feet when he starts to walk.

There's something he's missing. He stops. Sam turns to him, gently bewildered. "Do you know a good hotel?" Steve asks. He's stalled in the doorway.

"You're not going to a hotel," Sam says. "You're coming home with me. Let's go."

"What? No, come on. I can't impose--"

"You know the situation," Sam says. "The problem is you need protection. You need someone looking over your shoulder, and Natasha's halfway around the world half the time. I'm the next best thing. Now we can do this at a hotel if you'd rather, but I'm just an old man who likes his orthopedic bed, so unless you got a real problem with staying at my house--"

"I don't have a problem. But--"

"Then come on. Let's get you home. We'll figure out the rest."

" _You_ have a problem."

Sam blinks at him, surprised. "I don't have a problem."

"You've been avoiding me."

"Yeah," Sam admits, brow folded. "I have. I had to, until the vote. I had to make my call impartially, you know how it is. I get to know you again, decide I'd like you to stay?" Sam shakes his head. "I wasn't expecting Stark to be on my side, so I kinda thought I was gonna be the only person on the 'yay' side. The whole discussion would've gotten derailed. I'm sorry it happened like that, but getting to know you again would've interfered with my integrity."

"What is it," he hisses, "about all of you people and your goddamned _integrity_? You talk about it like it's your holy grail, like it's your -- _religion_. It dictates this movement, your whole _lives_ in a way that I can't--"

"We fashioned it after you," Sam tells him, and at least that leads Steve to shut his mouth. "It's a tenet in our constitution. 'We live and lead with the utmost integrity, personal and collective, lest we lose sight of the righteous path.'"

Steve blinks at him, not sure if he's understanding. "That has nothing to do with me. That's just good leadership."

Sam nods a little, then gestures kindly down the hall. "You gonna let me take you home or not?"

"Are you sure? I think maybe that I shouldn't attract any more attention to you than--"

"I'm sure. I'm not gonna let you loose on this world alone, Steve. Let's get out of here, c'mon."

  


***

  


Sam takes him underground by way of elevator, sparing him the scrutiny of security. Thankfully, he has a car. Even more thankfully, he seems happy to drive in silence. 

Steve spends the drive trying to process, but he keeps looking at his hands like he's not sure they're part of him. He forces them into fists and looks out the window instead, but it's the first glimpse of Manhattan Steve's really gotten during the day -- overwhelming in itself. Everything whizzes by, too tall and too flashy. He forces his breathing slow, and by the time Sam parks the car, he almost feels himself.

Sam's apartment is a third-floor walkup in Washington Heights. For Sam's complaints about his age, he takes the stairs as well as Steve. He opens the door and shows him in, and it's nice, modern, spacious; Steve can't tell if it's a big apartment, or if the furnishings and mirrors make it look that way. 

"Damn, Sam," Steve mutters, looking around.

"Not bad, right? I can't take credit. Marcus makes the money and the decisions around here, I really just show up and nod."

"Well nodded."

"Thank you."

Sam gives him a brief tour: two bedrooms, two bath, every inch of the place meticulously decorated. Steve looks at Sam and decides he looks at home in it, though -- like Bucky -- Steve never would have chosen this place for him. The furniture looks expensive, sleek, like the cars on the streets. Steve tries to remember what Sam's car had looked like, but finds he can't even name the colour.

Sam offers him a beer out of the fridge when they return to the kitchen, and Steve takes it, though it's barely noon. Maybe it'll make a dent into some of this tension in his shoulders. Sam cracks a beer open for himself, too, and throws himself down in the chair across from him, offering his bottle to Steve in cheers. "To happy returns," Sam says.

"Yeah," says Steve, meeting the cheers. Then they sit a while in silence, listening to the tick of the clock by the door. 

Steve turns to look at it, a little affronted by its persistence. "Boy," he says. "That's an old piece. 1910?"

"Ah, yeah," Sam says, turning to look at it. "Marcus likes antiques."

Steve looks to him, smiling mildly. "I'm hearing a lot about what Marcus likes around here."

"Piano's all mine," Sam says, hitching a thumb into the living room. A baby grand has been carefully nestled into the corner, flanked by plants, as though to give it some colour. "Or… I guess I play it. Marcus bought it, picked it out…" He sighs and leans back in his chair. "Yeah, he had kind of a heavy hand in the look of this place."

"Not such a bad thing. Remember your yellow wall?"

"You hated that yellow wall," Sam says pointedly, "but you were the only one."

"Reminded me of 1930s poverty. It wasn't even yellow, it was this sickly--"

"Just because _you_ were that colour at the time in question, doesn't make it a bad colour."

Steve grins and leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. He's pleasantly surprised, after everything, how easy it is to get along with Sam.

Silence falls again, a little bit tense. Finally Sam glances over to him and sighs. "I'm trying to figure out what you… know. What I need to be telling you, and all that."

"About Bucky?" But understanding dawns at the look on Sam's face. "About _you_ and Bucky."

Sam forces neutrality as he brings his beer to his lips. "So you know that much."

"Yeah," Steve says. "On that subject, I feel pretty well-versed."

Sam exhales, looking deep into the kitchen. "I'm glad you had each other, Sam," Steve goes on. "It sounds like you've supported each other through a lot, even… since. It's pretty clear he's not so interested in a life without you, so I can't help but feel like the overall outcome has been better than either one of you wants to acknowledge."

Sam smiles a little, down at his feet, but then he shakes his head as though clearing the thought. "Mark'll be home for lunch soon," he says. "We better quit talking about this."

"I guess he and Bucky don't exactly see eye-to-eye."

"Understatement," Sam mutters darkly. "Hard to explain to the man you kinda sorta cheated on that you still gotta see the other guy daily. They hardly got along before, but this is a new level. I get it, but it's…"

"You're talking to the chair of the 'Can't Shake Bucky' committee here, Sam. I didn't last a week in his house either."

Sam laughs, sudden, like he can't help but give it. "Goddamn. What the hell is it about that guy?"

"Let me know if you figure it out. I've been trying for decades."

A smirk, or something else, pinches at the corners of Sam's mouth. "So you two got down and dirty, huh?"

Steve looks away. He's never been good at talking about this stuff, let alone with someone who seems emotionally involved. "Ah, yeah," Steve sighs. "It, uh… took a while." Then he winces. "Not that I was trying."

"I bet you were trying a little."

"I really wanted to respect where he was coming from. Started out strong and everything, but…"

"Hey, I get it. It's been a hell of a week."

"It has," Steve agrees. Suddenly he remembers Bucky looking at him with scorn: in that meeting room; in the bedroom just this morning; every time before that when Steve had tried to get close. 

"It was a mistake," Steve goes on. "He kept telling me that, and I didn't see it. Now… I don't know what he thinks. He seems to think I'm being reckless when all I'm trying to do is keep him safe."

"That man and recklessness are intimately acquainted," Sam says. "Takes two to tango, Steve. He fucked you too, right?"

"Yeah," Steve says. "Yeah, he did."

"Then he's at least as much of an idiot as you are. Moreso, actually, since he knows the full stakes. If he fucked you, he wanted you, don't doubt it. It might've been stupid but it also might've been right."

Steve looks at his feet and nods a long time. He hadn't realized he'd needed to hear it until Sam said it.

"I assume he didn't tell you his body's breaking down before the board met?" Sam goes on.

"No," he grinds. "No, he didn't tell me."

"Then he's an idiot twice. Don't be too hard on yourself." There's a scratching sound near the front door; Sam glances at Steve, then draws a finger across his throat. "Ix-nay on the arnes-Bay, would you?"

"Sure," Steve agrees absently, but then shoots Sam a glance. "How deep are we going, exactly? Marcus know you came over the other night to see if it was me, or is that a secret too?"

Sam shakes his head, smiling as Marcus comes into the room. Tall and broad-shouldered, handsome with a cedar complexion, Marcus looks younger than Sam; Steve would peg him to be in his early 40s.

He stops in the doorway and looks from Sam to Steve, a slightly incredulous smile lighting his face. "This the legend himself?"

"That's him," Sam says. "Steve Rogers, meet Marcus Townsend. Mark's a defense attorney in Hell's Kitchen, working to get poor assholes like me off the books."

Steve stands to shake Marcus' hand, but looks back at Sam at that. "Assholes like you, huh?"

"We met when I got picked up for inciting unrest," Sam says, and Marcus grins like it's his favourite story. "Usually pretty careful about shit like that, but once or twice a decade some government body tries to throw me back in jail."

Steve's jaw drops. "You're kidding. After all this time? Aren't you under cover?"

"Government never gives up," Sam says, reaching up to hang his fingers loosely from Marcus' where they've rested on his shoulder. Steve can't help but smile; they look good together. Content. Like partners. "Depends on the administration."

"Surprised they haven't managed it yet," Marcus says, pushing playfully at Sam's shoulder as he moves into the kitchen. Steve breaks into a grin. He likes this guy.

"What is your cover name, anyway?" Steve says. "You still going by Will Samuels?"

Marcus immediately laughs. Sam sighs as he flits his eyes slowly toward Steve. "Yeah," he says, deadpan. "And I catch shit for it twice a week."

"Yeah, B-- I was strongly warned against using any of my actual names as covers, too." 

It was a brief slip, but enough of one; Steve glances at Marcus, who briefly imparts a look upon Sam. 

Sam splays his hands in defense. "You know that he exists, Mark."

"I don't have to like it," Marcus says, turning back to the fridge.

"Board voted to keep Steve here, by the way," Sam says flatly. "You should be happy."

"Actually, I am." But the smile Marcus gives Steve doesn't feel complete. "Just remind me how you voted, again?"

Sam stares at him. Marcus stares back.

"Sorry," Steve mutters to Sam.

"Not your fault," Sam says stiltedly. He clears his throat and addresses Marcus, who's finally turned away to peer back into the fridge. "I gave Steve the spare bedroom a few days. Alright with you?"

Marcus emerges with a sandwich container and looks at Steve a little circumspect. "Trouble in paradise?" he asks, as though reluctant to learn the answer.

"Steve found out Jack's dying," says Sam, "and Jack responded by throwing him out."

For a second, all Steve hears is fallout. The word _dying_ deafens him, leaves him immune to the world. 

When Steve finds it in him to look up again, he sees Marcus eyeing him with open sympathy. "Stay as long as you want, Steve."

"Thank you," Steve manages. It sticks in his throat. He tries to clear it. It doesn't leave.

Somewhere in the real world, Marcus has taken his briefcase back off the counter and is stooping, tilting Sam's head back, besetting a soft and lingering kiss against his lips. "You really mad at me?" Sam mutters against his mouth.

Marcus shakes his head, then gives a parting peck. "I'm not _really_ mad at you."

Sam smiles thinly, eyes on the floor. "You wanna pick up something up for dinner? I don't care what. Steve, you got a preference?"

Steve can't imagine feeling hungry ever again. "No."

Sam nods. "Whatever you want," he says to Marcus, tilting back his head; and with a glancing kiss at Sam's hand and a wave to Steve, Marcus is out the door.

They give it until they hear footfalls in the stairwell before either one says anything.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Steve finally chokes out. "How did it get this _bad_?"

Sam looks at him, like he's trying to figure out how best to balance honesty with tact. "He got his prosthetic replaced for the first time... I dunno, '27 maybe? I didn't think much of it; not about to argue with the man about his synthetic care regimen. But it turned out that he'd been in pain the entire time we were together, stemming back to even before. That came to light when he finally passed out with how much pain he was in in '29. By then his muscles were well degenerated and it was really too late to do anything but try to stem the decline."

"Sam," Steve begins, but Sam holds up a hand and shakes his head.

"Don't ask me why I didn't see it. I hounded myself for a long time asking the same thing. I don't have answers for you, Steve, because I saw the signs and I ignored them. He was always wincing while testing his grip; I thought it was psychological discomfort, you know? Then sometimes after a particularly tough mission, he'd take it clean off for a couple days. He said he was just trying to get comfortable with the way things were, and I believed him. I learned a long time ago when to push and when to back off, and the signals I was getting were to back off. Doesn't excuse me."

"I'm not putting it on you at all," Steve says. "Bucky was -- he's never gonna ask for help, he's never gonna show weakness. It's not on you, Sam. But -- _collectively,_ I mean, there was a _Board_ by then, wasn't there? People were in action with him on a weekly basis and I just -- he's good at hiding things, don't get me wrong, but I can't believe you didn't compare notes."

"You know how stubborn he is, the way he perseveres. The day he passed out was just a bad day overall -- admitted once he came to that he'd been stealing painkillers for a while, just ran out, plus it was after a long mission where he got his ass roundly beat. Then, the idiot, he went straight to the diner to do inventory after. If he'd split all up, it probably wouldn't have taken him out like that, but then God knows when we'd have found out about it. He was operating at 60% capacity on a _good_ day and that was still way better than any of the rest of us."

"But now it's caught up with him." 

Sam nods. "Serum can't keep up with the rate of damage anymore, and the damage only would've stopped if he'd retired a decade ago. Second replacement was in '29, third in '34, and he's not gonna have another one. He's running out of body to replace."

"But how does a serum just _fade_? Aren't these effects… you know, kinda permanent?" Steve gestures to himself.

"Well, here's how it happens the way I understand it. _You_ got caught in the ice. Right? Any normal person would have died. As you unfroze, the serum was able to restore normal function to your tissues as if you had never been frozen. I dunno how much you've heard about it, but one idea about your most recent jump through time is that it was only possible because of the serum. Stark thinks that any normal person hit with power like that might've undergone molecular dissolution."

Steve stares at him, stunned. "I don't understand how that's possible."

"There's a lot we've learned about the serum in the past few years. Stark…" Sam hesitates, then sighs. "Stark recreated it."

Steve gapes at him. " _What_?"

"Maybe it'd be more accurate to say he deciphered his dad's old notes? The point is that we have serum quantities at our disposal when and if we need them."

"Sam." Steve puts out a hand to stop him. "That is -- _incredibly_ dangerous."

Sam nods. "Believe me, I know. UFoE has regulations." Steve rolls his eyes, but Sam goes on. "The serum's been used only once that I know of, and that was illicit. That's when we _created_ the regulations -- to make sure that doesn't happen again."

"Stark used it."

"Yeah."

"Who on the planet would have volunteered for that?" 

Sam stares, a second, until Steve waves him away. "In fact," Sam continues, smiling a little at Steve's idiocy, "he tested it on someone who was unconscious."

" _What?_ "

"He did it as a last-ditch effort to save his life," Sam says. "It was Rhodes."

Steve just gapes. Sam nods. "He was dying from cancer. Long enough in early prototypes of Stark's suits and the tumours started right in his lungs. He didn't stand a chance. He was Stage 4 before anyone knew what was happening."

"Jesus. So Stark felt responsible."

"He _was_ responsible," Sam admits. "But Rhodes wasn't having it. He wasn't angry at Stark for a second, he just took it all in. Said he'd survived to his 60s, which was a damn miracle under all he'd seen. He was ready to go, and he went quickly. Trouble was, Tony wasn't with him." Sam raises his eyebrows, as though trying to make a point. Steve winces and buries his face in his hands. "Good news is, Rhodey's got a _lot_ of years left now. A lot of years. Bad news is, he won't so much as look at Stark without threatening or initiating physical violence. He's got the patience of a saint, but his contempt runs deep. It's an ugly situation."

Steve runs his hands over his face. "You're trying to say you know more about how the serum works," he says, defeated. "It reversed Rhodes' cancer."

"Steve -- the serum is alive." Steve stares at him. Sam nods. "It is its own microorganism. It's an agent acting on your cells on its own behalf. That's why you heal fast, why you were able to come back from the dead after being frozen. It's why, for the number of times Barnes was taken in and out of the ice when he was with Hydra, he never lost his extremities to frostbite. The serum kept him from dying when he fell off that train, but the trauma to his arm was too severe, and from that moment the degeneration was kind of set in stone once he kept putting strain on it for twenty years. The serum literally brought his cells back to life, corrected ills... made the trains run on time, so to speak. But, like any life form, potency fades over time. There's less and less of the corrective component running through his veins. His recovery from strain is still faster than most, but unless he takes another dose, the strain's gonna keep getting stronger, and it's gonna start shutting things down until there's nothing left."

"Wait." Steve leans hard against a forearm on the table. "Unless he takes another dose…?"

Sam nods solemnly.

"Sam."

"He's known for five years that the serum exists," Sam says slowly. "And he hasn't done it. I'm pretty sure he never will."

"Sam." Steve's awake with possibility, anticipation pounding through his veins. "There's a cure?"

"We have been round and round this discussion too many times to count, Steve. There's a way to halt things, and he is not taking it. He is done, he is out. He won't even tolerate the discussion anymore."

"There must be another option," Steve says. "If he removes the prosthetic now, isn't that…?"

But Sam's already shaking his head. "It's not just the prosthetic that would have to go. The hardware runs nerve lines into his brain, don't forget. Tony has concerns based on scans that he might've had some pathway realignment shit done that we don't understand, and some other things Hydra did to his brain just to get the prosthetic working in the first place. We'd need to consult with a neurosurgeon... and even if we figured out a way to replace that hardware with a more natural equivalent, his body probably couldn't support what he's lost in muscle and ligament. And then, even if we got it all right, he'd be a civilian, and not a necessarily very active one. He'd have a hard time playing guitar, cooking… the things that define him. Total reboot on all of those skills, and the total loss of others."

"Jesus, Sam."

"And I dunno how it looks to you, but Jack's kind of in the middle of something. He still carries a figurative rocket launcher on his back set with Hydra's bearings. He's still trying to get to the root of it, take them out as thoroughly and entirely as he can. To take him out of that fight before he gets it done…"

"He'd sooner do it and die than not do it at all," Steve murmurs.

"Problem is that Hydra's never gonna be gone, Steve. He'll die before he gets to a point where he's prepared to make the call to voluntarily give up that fight. He's being stubborn for no reason. We need a supernatural solution to this supernatural problem, or he's gonna die in vain for a cause that's not relevant. Only he's been told all that and he doesn't care."

Steve stares at him, at a loss. "So how long does he have if he denies all treatment?"

"It's not easy to track the relationship between the serum decay and muscle death. Maybe a few years, maybe five or six. He says he's not in much pain now and seems more willing than expected to see his systems replaced with synthetic equivalents, so who knows what Stark might come up with. Maybe he'll live a hundred years as a man of steel, Steve, I dunno." Sam offers a delicate smile, but he seems as upset as Steve feels. "I voted to send you back because there's a lot of things that can't be fixed. Kinda hoped we could arm you with information to prevent this from happening in the first place, but I guess that was -- what was it Clint called it? 'Pipe dream encouraged by grief and deception'?"

"Delusion."

"Right."

Steve looks at him a long time. "I'm so sorry about your family, Sam."

He takes in a slow, heavy breath, and then lets all it out. "Just find it hard to believe that any of this could be meaningful. It'd just be nice to be able to…" But then he stares blankly at the wall, and shakes his head clear of it. "It'd just be nice to save a life," he says, and gets out of his chair. "Lunch. You want something?"

"No," Steve says, but he can see there's a plate being set out for him anyway; and as he watches Sam move with fluid control, he recognizes the tension in his shoulders and the stiff line of his back and wonders if anyone emerges from being Captain America intact.

  


***

  


Steve asks Sam for a primer on what they know about his disappearance, and Sam rolls back the shutter on a desk in the spare bedroom, revealing clean stacks of organized notes. "A lot of these files are classified," Sam says, and then claps Steve on the shoulder and leaves him to it.

The UFoE reports are clear enough that Steve actually thinks he might be learning. The official theories on Steve's disappearance seem remarkably similar to the laundry list of worries Bucky had given him: that he was instantly killed or disassembled by the mutant; that it was an illusion Steve himself put together, giving him the freedom to leave the country; that he was teleported or transported somewhere, though UFoE didn't have the science to support this possibility either; that he was rendered invisible, undetectable to human senses, wandering around unable to interact with the world but still conscious. Like a ghost.

This idea, that Steve was taken "out of phase" with the corporeal plane, seemed to warrant a lot of research. It takes him halfway through Thursday to get through it without feeling like his brain is melting out of his ears. In the end it seems like UFoE's compilation on phase shifting is the closest thing that seems like it applies.

Steve throws the report away from himself and stares hard. He wants to talk to Tony, but he also wants very much not to talk to Tony. He finds himself petrified with the weight of inaction, not knowing how to make a call.

Sam and Marcus leave him alone for the most part, which is a relief. He wouldn't know what to tell them. Does he stay? Does he go? He could ask Sam for a job, but if Bucky was serious about keeping Steve out of his life, Steve wouldn't want to be anywhere near him. He's not going to be able to handle being exes with Bucky any more than he's going to be able to handle watching him die when there's an alternative right there...

Eventually he gets sick of himself, sick of lying in this bed, stuck in his head, trying to force solutions to an unresolvable situation. He pulls on the sweatpants Sam rescued from Bucky's and pads into the living room, not bothering to turn on a light as he goes.

Sam and Marcus have long since gone to bed. The living room windows face out into the street and Steve watches people pass for a long time, wondering what they're up to so long after midnight. It could be anything. Steve wishes he was among them. At least then he'd be doing something with his time.

Marcus is beside him. 

"Fuck," Steve bites out, and then looks away. "Sorry. God. I don't know why I didn't hear you."

"Sorry for sneaking up on you," Marcus says amicably. "By now I assume you vigilant types are gonna notice me whether I like it or not."

Marcus doesn't look at him, but he stands there long enough to let Steve check him out. When Steve finally faces forward, Marcus clears his throat gently, in case Steve wants to tell him to piss off.

But Steve doesn't. He finds, after a day and a half of trying to tear out his own hair in solitude, that he's grateful for the company.

"I wanna set the record straight on something," Marcus finally says, still not looking at him. "Because I doubt either of those self-sacrificing idiots did."

"Oh?"

"Me and Sam were broken up when they fucked."

For all Steve's heard about it, he suddenly feels firmly like this is none of his business. "Oh."

"That news to you?"

"Maybe it was implied, but I -- I had the impression it was a worse situation."

"It wasn't. I kicked him out, I said we were done. In fact I said I never wanted to see him again. I wasn't fucking thrilled about the fact that he jumped back into bed with Sways after 48 hours, especially given that we'd been fighting about him in the first place. But Sam didn't cheat on me. We were done. He sought comfort. I didn't want you to have the wrong idea."

Steve looks at Marcus sidelong. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I've been watching the two of you the past couple days, listening in to the conversations you've been having about the way things were. I know you're a man of integrity." And yet Steve would pay money never to hear that word again. "I also know the way Sam's spent the last years trying to be the best version of himself, and how many goddamn times he brings up your name in our conversations about it. He's a good man who does his best and he says he used to follow your lead, so I wanted you to know he hasn't failed you."

Steve exhales hard, looking out the window and into the distance. "You got the wrong idea about me, Marcus."

"I don't think so." His cheeks grow round and plump when he smiles. "That's one thing you Captain America types got in common. You strive for perfection and declare yourselves sinners when you fall short. You're just fucking human, Steve. Sam's human. Jack -- God help that miserable son of a bitch -- is human, too. I don't know you that well, but all three of you seem to forget that, from where I'm standing. So I'm here to tell you that I think you're all fine examples of the species." Marcus shakes his head and joins him in staring outside. "Just don't tell Jack I said that."

"But you don't know me."

"No offense, Steve, but I get enough about you on all sides to be able to form conclusions." Marcus gives him an assessing glance. "Plus, you know, you spend enough time in my industry and you start to figure out who's an asshole and who's not in about five minutes. You seem honest to me."

"Maybe honesty's my problem."

"Maybe," Marcus agrees. "It harms some more than it serves them. But it does mean that dishonesty's _not_ your problem, and that's gonna be a weight off your back you didn't realize could've been there."

Steve's not sure what to say to that, so for a long time he doesn't say anything. "You see things," Steve tells him. "Sam, too. He's good at that."

Marcus laughs, a deep and soulful sound. "Yeah, people get pissed about that. Most people like to live in some kind of state of denial."

"How long did Sam make it before you figured out who he was?"

"You mean as Captain America?" Marcus shrugs. "Forty-eight hours, give or take."

It's Steve's turn to laugh, now. "I bet that pissed him right off."

"Less than the fact that I only cared about it for the sake of the case. Lot easier to defend Captain America if I knew that's _why_ he was upsetting the peace."

"Yeah, we don't make friends with the legal system so much."

"It's about loopholes," Marcus says. "Seems like you might appreciate that."

Steve smiles. Maybe he does know something about him.

They stand in silence a while, watching the night from the third-storey window.

"I'm gonna ask you something, and you don't have to answer," Marcus says.

"Shoot."

"Just what in _hell_ do you people see in that man?"

Steve holds his eye and smiles thinly. He takes a long moment to settle the swell of his heart before he even tries to get words through the lump in his throat. "I can't speak for Sam," Steve says. "But for me it's…" He sighs, shakes his head clear of the grief that catches up with him; moves his head to one side, and then another, as though trying to force feeling out through his ears. "Before the war, back in the '30s," he says. It's easier to tell it as a story, in the end. "I was sickly, getting sicker. Kept landing myself in hospital for one thing or another. My mother was a nurse, but she died of TB when I was eighteen, and Bucky… took me in. Nursed me instead. He took me in when I couldn't pay rent and propped me up until I could. 

"I had to go to hospital twice in the years that followed," Steve goes on, "and both times, they cleaned Bucky right out. We used all my savings and then all of his, and even then we were indebted to the butcher to the amount of thirty dollars, which back then was a hell of a lot of money. It was money we never raised back, but Bucky did repairs and I worked shifts there, when I was back on my feet again. We couldn't afford it. _He_ couldn't afford it -- me, or the medicine, or having a roommate that couldn't pay his share. But he did it." Steve glances over and meets Marcus' eye. "He didn't even hesitate. He found me passed out from not being able to breathe and he took me to the clinic right there in his arms, just like he took me into his house. I -- was dying, Mark. My lungs wouldn't have lasted to the end of the war, or… maybe that long, but not much longer. And he knew that. And I know he knew that, because he was the one that told me. He wasn't the type to let a thing go when he decided it concerned him, and I concerned him. So he told me I was gonna survive and that was that."

Steve's voice fails him, and he doesn't try to chase it. He just stands, stalk-still, staring out over this unfamiliar Manhattan. "He told me I was gonna be fine, even though I wasn't. And he didn't let me leave, even when I tried to go." Steve turns again, but averts his eyes quickly. "He's a better man than me. He didn't deserve what happened to him to make him so hardened. He's the first person to tell you he's tough to get along with, but in other ways, he hasn't… changed, Marcus. Not really. He still takes in these _fucking_ strays--"

The phrase cracks down the middle and Steve doesn't chase the other half. Marcus sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Take a minute and breathe."

Steve swallows and takes a breath in through his nose and raises his face to the ceiling, to the sky, out of habit. "It's a century later and our positions are reversed, and I can't bring myself to do the same. Now he's the one who's dying, and the only thing I have to say -- the _only thing_ I have to say for myself -- is 'don't, or I'm gone.' And that makes me -- what the fuck does that make me?"

"I want you to breathe, now," Marcus tells him. "You have a lot of muscles and I'm afraid you're gonna break my window frame if you keep holding onto it like that."

Steve coughs out a wet laugh and lets go of the wall. He forces a breath; feels Marcus' hand rise and fall against the blade of his shoulder.

"I'm gonna ask you something else," Marcus says, saving Steve from the rest of the story. "Same situation, just reversed. If you were dying today, got two years left--"

Steve looks to him with alarm.

"Just an example," he says, hand flying up to placate. "Just for the sake of example. You tell all that to Jack -- tell him you're moving back in, that it's on him to take care of you now for the rest of your days, which he's expected to enjoy at your request. You think he'd be alright with that? Or you think maybe he's a little too accustomed to advocating for his own survival at this point to put that aside for someone else?"

Steve thinks about that a long while. He doesn't know the answer.

"It's not cut and dried," Marcus says, and lets go of his shoulder with a final squeeze. "No one faults you for needing time to land on an answer. Not even him. Though he does seem the judgmental type..."

Steve hacks out another laugh. "You sound like Sam."

Marcus stiffens. "Pardon me?"

"He didn't tell you? The way they used to snipe at each other? Couldn't stand each other for the longest time. We were in the middle of a Hydra warehouse just before all this happened -- they couldn't stop fighting to save their lives."

"Are you telling me that if I'm not careful," Marcus says slowly, "I might someday fall in love with the guy?"

"I don't know about that. I guess get to know him and find out."

"Hard pass."

Marcus stands with him a few more minutes, then goes back to bed without a parting word. Steve stands as though uninterrupted, begging Manhattan for answers.

  


***

  


Steve spends most of Friday horizontal, lying on the floor when he stops thinking he deserves the bed. Eventually Sam walks in and starts talking to him as though he isn't bottom-dwelling scum, which really harshes his vibe. Steve listens passively as Sam goes into a recap of the UFoE meeting of the day -- how they polished off the agenda abandoned on Wednesday, how Bucky looked miserable, how Sam told him to come over and talk to Steve already and just--

"No," Steve says.

"No what?"

"No I don't want to see him."

"Now I know better than to believe that."

"I don't want to see him until I have something to say for myself," he clarifies tensely.

"You don't have anything to say for yourself? _You?_ "

"Yeah, yuk it up," Steve says. "The misery of this situation admits to stand-up. I get it."

"You trying to be an expert on standing up from the floor?"

"Is this tough love and humour thing supposed to be helpful? Is this you helping right now?"

"Yes," Sam says, and nudges him in the leg with his foot. "You know what I did when me and Jack called it quits? I went to San Francisco for a glorious year of California sun and California lovin'. Fought with Scott Lang's team over there. It did me a world of good. Cleared my head, kept me active, gave me perspective, got me laid. Gave Captain America some time on the other coast."

"Is this you kicking me out?"

"This is me making suggestions. You know, things to bear in mind. You thinking you need some time? New York's already got two Captain Americas, such as we are. If you wanted to take the mantle back just so you have something to do -- drown out that sorrow the way you did last time you jumped through time -- I recommend you get some space from the situation and head west for a while. That is, if you're both gonna keep being stubborn as mountains about these things -- which, knowing both of you, you will…"

"I don't know a goddamned thing," Steve mutters emptily.

"Well, it worked for me. That's all I'm saying. Then I came back here and could look that asshole in the eye again, even when I knew he was ruining his life. Might be worth a shot for you, too." Sam prods him in the leg again. "There's leaves on the trees. Go take a look. Take a fucking walk or something, now, I mean it. I know you miss that dog; go find another one to chill with. You're pathetic lying here on a Friday night."

Now that Sam mentions it, he does miss Burrito. It was good to have to leave the house twice a day, to get out in the world, but his constant companionship was a real comfort too. When Steve finally finds it in him to roll to his feet ten minutes later under the hope of finding something positive in the world, Sam waves him off when he requests masking devices, saying something about how Bucky is paranoid. "Stranger danger," Sam does say, eyebrows raised, but he hardly needs reminding about the Aurora incident. 

With that, Steve sets off into the night alone. He moves south in search of something familiar, hoping to trip into a dog park or something. But in the end, he's still aimless. It's more pronounced out here, how there's nowhere to go. He wishes for the comparative simplicity of the bedroom floor. At least he hadn't had to look at things, look out for things, when there was nothing coming at him except Sam's annoying toes. 

Now he actually feels it, feels the truth he's been avoiding: After all this time, Steve's revealed to be a coward. 

He's always known it in his heart. It's always been there, fueling his foolish bravado. Now, for better or worse, he's been immersed, forced to face up to it. Shot through time and backed into a corner, now he knows he doesn't have it in him to watch Bucky die. 

If he'd had the last eighteen years with Bucky, he thinks, he'd probably feel differently now. He can imagine it clearly: twenty years together that they weren't supposed to have, and Steve might be able to let him go. Bucky was always going to die someday. 2040 is much better than 1944. 

But to spend this time now, knowing it's so brutally truncated, forcing joy when he feels only sorrow… Steve can't fathom it. Maybe Bucky was right not to tell him. On some level, he wishes he never had. 

Under all of this grief, Steve feels the surge of righteous adrenaline every time he thinks of the fact that there's something Bucky can do, but won't. Every molecule in his body wants to fight against that, and yet he can't stop thinking of Rhodey, keeping his back turned to Tony, refusing to look at him after all these years. The choice isn't his, in the end, and for all he's an asshole, he wouldn't take that freedom from him if it killed him to do it.

Steve wishes he could take his place.

He has to stop thinking about this. He'd swear he hears...

Distant, under the rumble of chattering voices, Steve hears Bucky's voice. The strangest memory surfaces -- the way Bucky used to hum while slipping potatoes in to boil.

Steve's standing outside a bar called Happy's. His eyes fall on a sign, written with chalk:

_Jack Sways_

Steve's not sure how long he stands there in disbelief.

Twice he's been thinking of Bucky and then run into him. The universe is telling jokes. He knows he shouldn't go into the bar, shouldn't follow those stairs into that dense, welcoming dusk; but Bucky is _singing,_ is the thing, he's in there and he's singing, he is playing guitar and he is _alive_ , and if Steve never sees this -- if he never knows --

His feet move him forward before he's sure what he's doing, hitting hard against the steps on his way into the bar. Bucky's sitting on a stage, playing a tune Steve doesn't recognize. There are no words to it, just humming, dragging nostalgia out of Steve in long, mournful strands. 

There are a lot of people who seem there to watch him; others socialize, chatting quietly, out of respect for the atmosphere. After a few days away from him, it's a shock to see him older. The lines around his eyes seem more pinched than Steve remembers. He's wearing glasses again, as though they're part of the Jack Sways persona. He wears a thin sweater rolled up at the elbow, hair swept loosely away from his face. Having not shaven in a few days, he looks convincingly like a rock star, if a washed up one. He's like a chameleon, moving flawlessly between roles, yet never deviating far from the core of him. 

Steve thinks of how far he's come, and aches. The place is busy, but there's an empty seat at the end of the bar. Steve slips toward it before Bucky can look up -- he's distracted, his eyes drifting the way they do when he's deep in thought, fingers moving across the strings as though on autopilot. Steve orders a Bud Light, not caring, mostly just relieved to find something he recognizes, and the bartender hands it to him just at the end of Bucky's song.

Steve leans back a little, hiding behind the guy beside him. "Thank you," comes Bucky's voice among a smattering of applause. Steve's surprised to hear the tone of it: a little smooth, like a guy named Jack Sways would actually sound. "It's good to see you here tonight. How you doing?" 

It's the kind of tone Bucky used to put on when he talked to women in dance halls back in the day, his voice made smooth by rum and courage. "Yeah, me too," Bucky says, responding to paltry clapping. "I'm in a bit of a mood." He draws the word out, like those rumbling tones are as natural as breathing. "Don't have much upbeat to offer. Radiohead covers. Mountain Goats. Maybe some Morisette, we'll see."

There's a gentle roll of laughter. Steve blinks around the bar, surprised by it. 

"Someone break your heart, for once?" somebody yells from the back, and the crowd rumbles with laughter again; it seems Bucky wasn't exaggerating about Jack's reputation. Steve risks leaning forward. He's out of Bucky's periphery, barely noticeable at the bar's back corner. 

Bucky smiles thinly, but it's at the floor, avoidant. "This one and only time," he admits, lips very close to the microphone, and the crowd laughs again. "Ah, nah," he says, and to Steve's utter shock, his smile's more genuine this time. He seems to really enjoy this, telling jokes to a crowd. Steve shouldn't be surprised, but he is. 

"It's happened before, actually," Bucky admits. That surprises Steve, too. "Couple times. One of them was the same guy, if you can believe it." For some inexplicable reason, the crowd eats that up. "Yeah," Bucky says, nodding. "I know. But this other time was with a different guy, and it was a real good thing we had. Until it wasn't." He strums an idle chord. "I picked up a guitar after. Can't wait to see what kind of skills I'm gonna get out of this one."

"Carpentry!" someone suggests from the back, again to laughter, and Steve watches as Bucky grins slow, reluctant, staring like he's not sure whether he's gonna say what he wants to say.

"Maybe you've heard, but I'm already pretty handy with a decent hard wood," Bucky says into the mic, and it's what the crowd wanted; laughter follows, then whoops and applause; Bucky grins shyly, looking down at his guitar again. "Ah, you fuckers cheer me up," he says, strumming again. He shifts into a riff that sounds complicated to Steve's ears; it falls a little minor, as though to mark the return of his mood. 

"Been thinking about fragility lately," Bucky says, talking more to his guitar than anyone specific. He's still playing, another tune Steve still doesn't recognize, and Steve has the sense that he's a little more used to making himself vulnerable, now. Like he started talking to this crowd for the sake of practice -- revealing himself to people who don't have the rest of him to compare him to. "Since you all apparently think I'm such a cad, here's some personal trivia: the last time I got dumped, I'd been in that relationship for six years."

The bar goes vocal with disbelief. Bucky smiles wide again, a little incredulous at their reactions. "You're all a bunch of assholes, you know that?" he says loudly.

More laughter. As though in natural segue, someone yells: "Free Bird!"

"Every week with you people it's fucking Free Bird!" Bucky yells. Laughter again. Bucky shakes his head scoldingly, then plays the first few chords of the song, to cheers through the whole place. "Yeah, yeah," he says, letting the song drop. He pauses to adjust the microphone with both hands, then shakes out his left hand, again cloaked to seem flesh. Steve has to fight against a wave of nausea as Bucky winces, as he stretches out his hand -- like there's a stiffness in his palm he just can't shake. 

"You're not getting Free Bird, I'm trying to set a mood here," Bucky says, and he tests his hand against the fretboard, nodding at its nimble movements. "All my relationships end for the same reason and it's a pain in my ass. I'm always too gone from it, too concerned with keeping my head on straight to pay any attention to the... details. Turned out I'd actually really loved that bastard during that time, and I'm not sure I realized how much until he broke it off." He offers a riff to take up space. The crowd is rapt; Steve is hunched over himself, burning with regret. "I wanted to be a different person than the guy who failed that relationship, so I learned the guitar. The guy who got dumped wouldn't have learned the guitar. Turned out I was good at it." He looks up and smiles. "So maybe I ought to thank all of you for being my clandestine lovers every week for the last three years."

"Our pleasure!" yells someone.

Bucky smiles amid peppered applause -- embarrassed, Steve thinks, though it's hard to really see him from this angle. "I wanna play you a song now," Bucky says. "It's one of the first ones I learned. After I got the basics down, the strumming, the chords, figured out how to use a right-handed guitar since I didn't know they came in left-handed too--" he pauses for the expected laughter and receives it, strumming idly all the while -- "I hacked at this until I got it down. It's one of my favourites now, and it's about… fragility. Which is what I am. I fight not to be, but in the end, I guess it's..." 

Bucky plays on for a while but doesn't speak again. Steve's afraid to look. The room is eerily silent, as though perched on an edge, and Steve finally leans forward to catch Bucky's face in the light: tilted toward the ground, watching the dust fall as he finds the words he wants to say. 

"It's been a weird week," Bucky says. Steve flinches against the impulse to lean back. The corners of Bucky's mouth press in, just a bit: the smallest tell. "Time goes by and you think you're good with things, but… life's short, in the end. Even when it's long as hell, it's really fucking short. You can fix a lot of things, or at least balance the scales a bit... except when it comes to that fucking hole someone punched in your heart a century ago that never really healed." His aimless tune changes key, flows seamlessly into the first few notes of the song he wants to play, and the audience knows it at once; Steve does too. It's one of the songs Natasha had given him as a primer on rock, back in the day. "Especially when it turns out he never moved on, either."

And Steve knows at once he shouldn't be here. 

_Took my love and I took it down,_  
_Climbed a mountain and I turned around…_

He's bearing witness to something that isn't meant for him. Bucky's voice is unrefined, sometimes reaching for notes he can't quite reach, but what he lacks in acuity he makes up for in soul. Steve used to feel like this when he used to watch Bucky dance -- like it was the only time Bucky was ever free, with his arms wide open to the notes on the floor. That was meant for Steve, then -- to watch him, to learn what it looked like. This isn't meant for him now. This is meant for the man Steve left behind.

_And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills,_  
_'Til the landslide brought it down…_

His hand closes into a fist against the bar, the other hand clutched around his condensing beer. He can't think right; he should make an exit.

_Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?_  
_Can the child within my heart rise above?_  
_Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?_  
_Can I handle the seasons of my life?_  
_Mm-mm… I don't know..._

He tries to signal for the bartender without drawing too much attention to himself, but the bartender, like everyone else, seems transfixed by Bucky. Steve can't blame him; the song's a thing of beauty, honest in its imperfections. From anyone else, Steve would be just as riveted, but this is serving only to wrench his heart out by way of his throat.

_Well, I've been afraid of changing 'cause I--_  
_I built my life around you._  
_But time makes you bolder--_

Steve snaps for the bartender, but his hand falls hard as Bucky's voice cracks, then falters, fingers playing steadily on without a suffering beat. Steve has to look at him, then, he can't not-- 

Bucky's face falls, pinched, his eyes shut hard. 

The audience picks up the lyrics and sings on for him. 

It's almost as though they'd expected this. It's touching, the way the crowd fills the gaps, carrying the song that Bucky started. Steve can't stand it, it's too much, he's gotta go. He grabs the credit chit over the bar and scans his censor, spinning away from the stool in time to see Bucky's face rise and sing a final line--

_I'm getting older, too._

And for all Steve's haste to get out, he freezes in his tracks. 

Bucky looks right at him.

He freezes. The song falters. Silence falls awful before his fingers pick up again. Steve's stuck to the floor, though he's desperate to move. He feels like he's suffocating. He's left to watch as Bucky swallows, as he sets his jaw, as his eyes flit fast around the room.

The room contracts, drawn tight by heartbreak. Steve finally finds it in him to move. He pushes out and away from it, desperate to breathe, hurtles over the barrier and runs down the street--

He doesn't care about how he looks. He doesn't care about attention. All he knows is that he has to go, get away -- but Bucky's bright eyes seem to follow him, no matter how hard he runs.

  



	12. The Serenity to Accept, The Courage to Change, The Wisdom to Always Tell the Difference

  


Sam and Marcus are still awake when Steve finds his way back. 

They're watching a movie in the dark. Steve blinks at them from the entranceway, taken in by their normalcy. Marcus is massaging Sam's feet, glass of wine on the table beside him, while Sam stretches out on the sofa, wineglass in the air.

"There you are," Sam says from the sofa, sounding sleepy. "Starting to wonder if I should send someone out."

"I'm fine," Steve says. He nods to the glass in his hand. "I don't think I've ever seen you drink wine before."

"I drink wine."

"That right?"

"Yeah, it has… notes."

Marcus gives a snort of laughter as he works his thumb into Sam's heel. "I introduced him to wine," he confers.

"I was fifty-five damn years old when I met you, you did not _introduce_ me to wine."

"I introduced you to _good_ wine," Marcus says.

"And I know you better than that," Sam says to Steve, ignoring Marcus, "you are not fine."

"No, I'm… good."

"Yeah, kinda like this has notes."

"Well, guess I believe you now."

Marcus looks up at him. "Join us. I think this film might've even come out before you, ah, disappeared. Or… maybe you've seen it."

"It's about the war," Sam says dryly. 

Marcus winces.

"No thanks," Steve says. "I'm going to bed."

"Sam made chicken cacciatore," Marcus says. "Wrapped up in the fridge. Made two for you just in case, Sam says he can't remember how much you eat."

"I eat a normal amount," Steve grouses, but now that he mentions it, he probably should get something in him. He turns on his heel and heads for the kitchen.

"A normal amount for two people," Sam calls after him.

"Isn't that what I said?" he calls back and then he is plunged again in solitude -- opens a cupboard, unwraps the foil from the food, and puts it on a plate, without bothering to turn on a light in the room. He watches it rotate in the eerily quiet microwave, the microwave lit up -- the way Bucky's face was lit up on that stage -- 

He feels his stomach wrench. He stops the food in the microwave and breathes a minute. He starts the microwave back up again. He closes his eyes and fights the urge to just lie down on the floor. Maybe he'll feel better after something to eat.

There's murmuring in the other room. It might've been obscured by the sound of the movie if Steve hadn't been looking for something to distract him. Once he picks up on it he can hear every word. 

"--cut up, huh?"

"Yeah," says Sam. "Both of 'em. Jack was all but nonverbal in the meeting, it's… messy."

"Why is this so fresh for _him_? It's not like they fucked."

Sam stays silent.

Marcus gives a low whistle. "Well, alright."

"They were always gonna."

"You know what Steve said to me? He said you and Jack used to fight like hell."

Sam laughs. "Yeah, I guess we did."

"So that never changed, huh?"

"No it did not." 

Steve finally finds it in him to get the food out of the microwave. He grabs some cutlery from a drawer, sliding down against a cupboard to eat in the dark. 

There's a peculiar silence that makes Steve wonder what he missed, but then he hears Sam's sigh, as though shifting through discomfort. "Mark, I gotta tell you something."

"That right?" The movie turns off.

"I don't wanna hide things from you anymore, but I keep doing it anyway. I'm not proud of it."

"Go on."

"The night Steve came back, I went over to Jack's to take a look. I swear to you, nothing happened. It was just -- why are you laughing?"

"Sam," Marcus says, "you know you smell like him when you come home from his place, right? Like old damn books and that awful deodorant."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I know nothing happened. You came home and looked me dead in the eye and didn't hesitate to kiss me hello. You might smell like that bastard, but I know when you're hiding something from me you think you've done wrong, and you didn't think you'd done anything wrong. I can't argue with that."

"What…? Wait, _what_?"

"I've seen you sitting at that table all week grappling with the right thing to do. You think I don't trust your moral compass? You slept with Jack and then came to me and admitted the whole thing right off. You can't live with a bad decision long. I wouldn't be marrying your sorry ass if I thought different." 

Then there's a rumble of laughter, low and fond. Steve shuts his eyes and rests his head against the cupboard door behind him. He shouldn't be listening, but he needs something good, and this... 

"I needed time to trust you, but I do," Marcus says. "You take his calls in the middle of the night and I don't say shit. You have a better sense of your boundaries than I do; that's clear on your face. Now come on, what's this about? You just telling me this now because Steve's in our home and you're facing up to the fact that you're over their bullshit?"

"I, uh… pretty much."

They both laugh a second. In the dark of the kitchen, Steve smiles, too.

"You gonna fuck that man again?" Marcus asks.

"No, counselor."

"Then we got no problem. Tell me sooner next time."

"Next time," Sam says. "You know I'm gonna be going to his house sometimes."

"Y'all work together, you got a history. It all applies."

"Then I want him to be able to come here sometimes, too."

"Fine, but I don't have to get along with him. That man finds pressure points and leans. He pushes my buttons, I'm throwing him out."

"Fine."

"And quit hiding things from me. Especially when I don't care about them after all."

"Alright," Sam says, a little softer, and then the silence grows warm; Steve blushes, trying to hide in his food, until minute later when they set down the hall. 

From the click of the shutting door, Steve rests his head against the cabinet and breathes. 

Why couldn't things be that easy with Bucky? Just one time, why couldn't they just be able to build something easy?

  


***

  


Steve spends the weekend reading -- or trying to read, in reality staring at the same word for ten minutes at a time. Sometimes, if he's feeling particularly pathetic, he presses the open book down over his chest and stares at the ceiling, an arm thrown over his forehead in woe. Sam and Marcus, when they're around, make a point of making fun of him for it, which Steve appreciates in the end. It helps to remember not to take himself seriously, in between bouts of taking himself seriously.

He's become homesick. It's been more than a week, eight days, nine, but it feels like much longer since he disappeared from that warehouse. Away from Bucky, for the first time, he starts to dwell on how it could've gone differently -- on what might be happening now if they'd found him, or if he'd gone back. At that same place, eighteen years ago, Bucky and Sam and maybe even Tony are scouring the area, setting up sensors and machines, taking over the warehouse by sheer force alone. He wishes he could reach out to them, to tell them something. If he can't go back in time, maybe he could…

In the end it feels like too much to hope. He thinks of Bucky trying to deal with the fact that Steve is just _gone_ and winds up covering his face with his hands every time. It's too awful, too wretched to think they'll never figure it out. He has to stop thinking about it.

He thinks, instead, of that Californian beach.

It's tempting. He'd have a job. He could throw himself into work again, just as Sam suggested, with an added bonus of being away from Bucky. He doesn't _want_ to be away from Bucky, but if he's going to be, it's better to be _far_. If the gangs of New York are any indication, California could probably use a face like his. Branch out. Franchise the Captain America name out to new locales.

Then he thinks of Sam and Marcus, talking out their issues in calm, caring tones.

He owes it to Bucky to at least talk to him about it. To say it to his face, if he's going to do as he asks and leave.

This, finally, is what gets him off the couch. He pulls his shirt off by the back of his collar and throws it on the dresser, grabbing a fresh one. Then he considers that he should probably put a modicum of effort into his appearance, if he wants a snowball's chance in hell of holding any kind of sway with Bucky at all.

He shaves, then showers, then spends a little while flexing to himself in the mirror. "I still got it," he mutters to himself. "I'm handsome, got muscles. Younger than everyone else Bucky dates, probably."

"You'd be surprised," Sam mutters as he passes outside the door.

Steve stares at himself in the mirror as his ears flush concertedly pink. "You heard that, huh?"

"Does this mean you finally showered?"

"I showered _Friday,_ I wasn't that bad."

"You smelled like despair. Sorry to rush your positive self-talk, but I gotta get in. First aid's in there."

"Oh, sorry." Steve pulls on pants and opens the door. "You alright?"

Sam's leaning against the doorframe with a tired expression, a gash over his eye already neatly patched. "They took care of me at HQ, I just need something to fix my back."

"Jesus." Steve steps aside to let him in. "What happened?"

"Some fucker who can handle metal showed up. We've seen him before, had to get new suits; we got some polymer equivalent now that doesn't respond to metalbenders. He already thought of that -- threw a pole at me, knocked my wing off. Ten second tailspin before Rhodes caught me. Fucked up my back again." Sam seems to be trying to reach for a drawer, but he winds up hissing at it instead. 

"I'll get it," Steve says. "This one?"

"Third drawer, should be a brace -- doesn't do shit to heal it, just keeps me stable. I'll go to acupuncture tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Everything helps. Damn, I was so looking forward to dancing."

"Maybe Hill will go easy on you."

"Yeah," Sam says, laughing through a wince. He pulls off his shirt. "She's known for that. Help me with this, would you?"

Steve steps forward, trying to figure out how the hell this thing is supposed to work. Sam sighs and takes it from him, rearranging it while muttering something about how supersoldiers are dumb as shit. "You going to see Barnes or what?"

"Yeah." Steve beckons Sam forward, looping the thing around his back. "We gotta talk. We gotta -- you know. We can't keep -- it's not gonna just…"

"Okay," Sam says dubiously. "Good talk."

"I'm working on it," Steve says with a sigh.

"He'll probably be at the diner. It's down in DUMBO. He doesn't like being at home when he's unhappy, plus now he's got no mystery to solve." Sam gestures at Steve. "He won't like you coming to him at work, but you'll also be harder to avoid. It's your call."

"Wasn't he on the mission today?"

"Wasn't his day. He took last Sunday, I got this one."

"Seems like you'd be stronger together."

"You'd be surprised how much it confuses people to see two Captain America outfits at the same time. Quit your concern trolling, we built our system a long time ago." He slaps Steve's hand away and fastens the brace himself. "Just because I'm old--"

"One of you has a bad back and the other one has a bad left side. I feel like your system--"

" _Bye, Steve,_ " Sam says to him loudly, kicking his shirt up to him from the floor with surprising agility and pushing him out the door.

Steve stumbles out, grinning sidelong, and is met with Marcus coming in the front door. 

"Hi," Marcus says, eyeballing him. "Some muscles."

"Wish I could say I earned them," Steve says. "You working too?"

"Done for the day. Sam said he was on his way."

"He's here." Steve gestures into the bathroom.

"Sam?" Marcus says, throwing his briefcase on the table and stepping swiftly in without even removing his shoes. He hangs on the doorframe of the bathroom and blinks at him sternly.

"I'm fine," Sam says.

"I'm suing Magneto."

Sam rolls his eyes. "No you are not. It wasn't even Magneto."

"Then it was Magneto Jr. I got no time for this. A man can't throw poles--"

"Since when do you think mutants are inside the law? Magneto or whoever can do whatever the fuck he wants. It's a matter of damage control."

"So is he contained?"

"No."

"Well, he can't ignore a summons."

Sam's shoulders go slack. Steve bites back a laugh as he turns to the bedroom, leaving them to it. "Mark."

"That man has a vendetta against you."

"I guess that bulletproof glass incident really stuck in his craw. Doesn't mean--"

"Multiple lines of defense. You're always saying--"

"The law doesn't count!"

Marcus gives an affronted gasp. "I beg your pardon? The law _what now_?"

Steve slips out behind them and through the front door as Marcus starts in with, "Where was the law when you were charged with disorderlies? _The hell in your corner,_ that's where it was," and as Steve sets down the hall, he realizes he's smiling again, growing fond of this world in ways he hadn't thought he would.

  


***

  


It's a gloomy day, threatening rain for what must be the first time since Steve arrived on this side of time. Steve knows he's found it when he turns the corner and sees a sign: _Sarah's pierogies, $11.99_ , with the _Sarah_ hastily crossed out with a finger. It's as though in distaste for the sentimentality of it.

Steve stares at it awhile from the end of the street, hands in his pockets, taking it as a word of warning. Of course, Bucky would have known Steve was staying with Sam, and that Sam would've been trying to help Steve in any way he could. Maybe it's a warning, trying to stave him off: _Rogerses not welcome here_ \-- a warding sign of literal proportions.

Steve walks forward anyway, defiant, compelling himself not to run. As the diner's window comes into view, he sees a sign painted in the window: _Best Breakfast in Brooklyn!_ , in blue and white text over a red starburst. Steve stops again, knees locking oddly as he sees the sign above the door: _Jack's Diner,_ open 24 hours, 365 days. Never a time when the doors aren't open.

As Steve stands there, half in the street, assessing the shop with a stony expression, a pair of people push past him and through the front doors. One's covered her head with her shawl, but straightens her terrible posture at once as her companion holds the door for her. The man glares at Steve, nodding his head down the street as though to encourage him to keep walking, and then steps in the diner after her, disappearing into its depths. 

Steve has the funny feeling things are about to come to a head unless he goes in or goes off. He takes a bracing breath and, finding that age-old courage cushioned between cowardice and doubt, he pushes forward with aggressive will.

Bucky still beats him to it, pushing the door open, mouth pinched small with fury. Steve stops dead at the sight of him -- at the way the pencil's shoved behind his ear, at his filthy white apron, at the way his long-ish bangs have been pulled tightly away from his face. 

He knows Bucky's mad at him, but he can't fight the budding smile.

"Get," Bucky says sternly, "out."

"I'm not in," Steve replies.

"This isn't fucking cute. At this point, it's stalking--"

"The bar was an accident," Steve interrupts. "I swear to you. I left Sam's and started walking, I hadn't even remembered you were playing."

"You could've kept on walking. What part of 'get out of my life' is unclear to you, exactly?"

Steve points with concern at his apron. "Is that… blood?"

"Raspberry couli," Bucky says flatly. "Did Sam send you? Is there a problem? Do I need to suit up?"

"No."

"Then I got nothing to say to you. This is my place of business and I'm asking you nicely to leave." Bucky turns and pushes his way back into the diner, but Steve's instincts override his better judgment; he grabs Bucky's arm, pulls him back to face him. 

Bucky turns very, very slowly, embodying a level of steel threat that actually makes Steve's blood run cold. "Remove your hand."

Steve does as he asks, but he doesn't bother quailing under his gaze. "I just want to talk. We should talk about this."

"I'm not interested."

"I am. Bucky, please."

"My name is Jack," Bucky says loudly, looking out along the street, "you've got the wrong man," and then he spins back inside yet faster this time, deftly pulling his arm out of Steve's reach as though he's remembered how to avoid him.

Blood pumping with despair and disbelief, Steve stands there a second as he watches him retreat. As his eyes adjust to the dark of the diner, he watches Bucky stack dirty dishes on a table, whipping a towel out from his waistband with furious panache, wiping around him as patrons look from Bucky and over to Steve, as though trying to figure out if he's a threat.

The longer Steve stands there, the angrier he gets. He's extended a hand, now, and Bucky's cleanly thrown it back at him without bothering to meet it. He's not sure the ball's in his court anymore. Now it's on Bucky to at least try to meet him partway before he decides to go across the country, or whatever the hell he's gonna do; Steve deserves better than that. He deserves at least _something._

He strides into the diner before he's fully thought it through. Bucky turns to him with dramatic incredulity. "Are you serious?" he says as Steve approaches, low in his throat, rolling up his sleeves as though preparing to get physical.

"Have _one_ conversation with me," Steve mutters, once they're nearly nose-to-nose. "It doesn't need to be now, but I'm not just gonna let this rot. We owe each other a proper goodbye if that's what we're gonna do--"

"I don't _owe you_ a goddamned--"

"I'm not letting you slip away from me," Steve growls at him. "You know me, Bucky."

"Stop calling me that," Bucky hisses, leaning toward him. "I'm under cover here, don't you get that? This is a safe place, for them more than me. I get found out, this haven goes out the window. Are you prepared to carry that on your conscience?"

Steve blinks himself sober and glances a glance around at the patrons of the restaurant. Several are turning in their seats, ogling openly at the conflict, some of them going so far as to crack their knuckles in Steve's direction. The couple who'd entered just before Steve sit in the corner, the woman blinking at him while cradling a coffee cup in her hands, her skin a rough and scaly green now revealed from the shawl. As Steve scans the faces looking at him, he sees that most of those present seem to be visibly different, all of them staring at Steve as though he's the one who doesn't belong.

Steve suddenly has the profound, overbearing sense that he is overpowered.

"I swear to you," Steve says, flicking his eyes back to Bucky with trepidation. "All I want to do is talk. I won't try to convince you of anything. A conversation. Trying to understand where the other is coming from in good faith. That's all I want."

"You want me to take care of him, boss?" says a woman by the cash. Steve looks over to see a small, slight woman, looking perfectly ordinary to the naked eye, except for an inexplicable glint of malice in her eye.

"No," Bucky says, breathing heavily as he studies Steve's face. Finally he tears his eyes from Steve and looks around the room, seeming to register the same tension Steve has. "Everyone can lay off," he says, not bothering to change his tone. "He's not a threat."

"To who?" asks a man in sunglasses at a booth near the window.

"To anyone here. He's a -- well, 'friend' is a strong word. He's a stubborn asshole I vouch for."

"Thank you," Steve says dryly. 

"He's on our side," Bucky finishes bitterly, still holding Steve's eye. Then he takes the stack of dirty plates off the table and pushes past him, in a failed attempt at abandoning theatrics. 

Steve throws his hands loosely out on either side of him and follows, rolling his eyes, letting himself be stopped by Bucky's employee's hand on his chest as Bucky pushes behind the counter ahead of him. "Employees only," she says with a hint of a Spanish accent. With an ominous _shing,_ a set of steel claws flies out from her knuckles and lands in the centre of his sternum as she tucks her fingers into a fist.

"Jesus," Steve says. It at least has the effect of stopping him dead in his tracks. "Alright." He splays his hands and steps slowly backwards. She withdraws her claws before he can quite clear her space. It seems as though the open secrets within the diner are still treated as things left hidden. "You've got a lot of allies," Steve mutters to Bucky, leaning his forearms against the counter as he slips onto a stool.

Bucky just scowls at him, throwing the dirty dishes into a pan under the counter before leaning over him, his hands steepled wide. Steve notices that for the first time since he's arrived in 2036 -- even among those at UFoE -- Bucky's prosthetic has retained its metallic sheen in public.

"We defend our own," Bucky seethes thinly, bearing over him in attempted intimidation. 

"Damn right," says someone from behind him. Steve turns toward the voice just as the whole diner bursts into applause, except for a concerned and apprehensive touristy-looking couple in the booth nearest the door.

"Seems like a safe enough place to admit who you are," Steve says, gesturing at Bucky's prosthetic.

"Enhanced on the other side too, remember? No one in here _looks_ suspicious but you never know who's gonna flop under the right conditions."

"We see through 'em fine!" crows a voice from the back, as though to underscore their solidarity with Bucky's distaste for Steve's presence here. His statement is followed by wild affirmations and a few slaps of hands on tables.

"Lonnie, you can't see a goddamn thing!" a woman calls out.

"I smell through 'em then," says Lonnie, and the diner rumbles with the laughter of fond familiarity.

"So you walk in here with your bullshit attitude and expect me to just take what you dish because we have a _history_?" Bucky goes on, as though they hadn't been interrupted. "I won't. I lived eighteen years without you and I'll live the rest without you too. If you respect me and the life I'm trying to lead, you'll get the fuck out of here and quit spewing bullshit lies about _conversation_. You can't maintain a boundary? You won't come back here and disrupt me or these people again. We're all just trying to get along from one day to the next." Bucky leans away and throws his towel back over his shoulder, looking Steve up and down with a bit of a sneer. "Talk about seeing through you -- I do. You don't want to talk, you want to mandate, and I'm telling you I'm not interested. You think you're Atlas or God, struggling under the world's sins when all you're feeling are your own. Go back and incite the hell that drives you if you want. I won't be part of it."

"I'm not trying to go back, Bucky," Steve says, quietly, suffering under his anger but unwilling to let him turn. "I'm just trying to find the way forward that hurts the least."

Bucky swivels back to him, then, eyebrow cocked jointly with suspicion and incredulity. Steve raises his hands out in front of him apologetically. "Jack."

"Hurts who?" Bucky says.

Steve searches his eyes, chest going tight just at the look of him -- at the way he stares, steady, defiant, unyielding, and yet: with the tiniest bit of hope.

Suddenly he can't look at him anymore. "Both of us," he tells his hands, clasping them together to stop them from shaking. "I'm thinking about moving to California. For… a while, anyway, I don't know, I just…" He forces himself to look up again, squaring his jaw. "I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye to you. Not again."

He's not sure what did it, but the aggression has left Bucky's face entirely. Instead it's turned neutral, Bucky staring intensively, not even blinking, not showing a thing.

"California," Bucky says.

"Yeah, I -- I dunno. It's one idea. I can't decide, but I figure if you don't want…"

Steve can't bring himself to say the rest. He just casts his eyes down, gets a grip, looks up again.

"Busy tomorrow?" Bucky mutters.

"Yeah, I got a pedicure."

Bucky looks at him sharply. "Am I in the fucking mood?"

Steve cracks a smile; he can't help it. 

Rolling his eyes, Bucky seems to fight one off too. "Come over after your _pedicure_ , then. I'll make dinner. Try for eight."

"You don't have to--"

"I said I'll _make_ dinner. I didn't say you get to eat it."

Steve smiles again, helplessly fond. Bucky blinks back, jaw clenching furiously. "Now are you done?" Bucky says shortly.

"Yeah."

"Then get out," he says, but this time it's softer.

Steve nods and raps his fingers gently on the counter. "Nice place you got here."

"Go fuck yourself," Bucky says, but there's not a bit of venom in it.

As the door drifts to a close behind him, Steve hears the whole diner erupts in sudden applause. He turns and catches Bucky's eye through the window with a grin, then ducks laughingly out of sight as Bucky gives him the finger. 

Steve walks back to Sam's, though it takes him four hours. 

Call him an idiot, but he can't douse his hope.

  


***

  


"I'm sorry this isn't easier."

Bucky blinks at him, jaw squared. His hair's swept away from his face and he's got a hand cocked on his hip. Steve finds himself longing for him -- for _this_ Bucky, the one here in front of him. This one with the scars and the plates and these lines that make him look like he's laughed as often as he's mourned. This Bucky is as much Steve's, now, as any other version.

This Bucky's jaw ticks angrily.

"Really?"

"I know what you want to hear." Steve shrugs. "I know the thing you want me to say is that I'm sorry I didn't trust your choice in the first place. I could tell you that, if you want."

Bucky's still holding open the door, blocking his way in. "But you'd be lying."

"Yeah," Steve says. "And I won't lie to you, Bucky. You're gonna have to put up with the truth as I know it. Is that alright with you?"

They stare at each other another second in silence before Bucky steps aside and sweeps him within. Once he closes the door, they stand there in the space between the kitchen and the dining area, holding each other's eye.

"It's the suddenness of it," Steve finally says. His throat's already gone dry. "I've run through countless scenarios, all the endless ways this could have gone differently… how I might've felt differently… and it's just being immersed in it all at once. Learning that you're dying, and then learning that there's a cure that you're just refusing to take out of stubbornness…"

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Bucky clips, voice thin.

"Are you not?" Steve shrugs wildly, already helpless to emotion. "Bucky, the serum can _save_ \--"

"Have you stopped to think about this for even a second?"

"It's all I do. It's all I've been doing. Over and over, I keep thinking about all the possible reasons there are to keep living, and to stop this deterioration that shouldn't even be happening to you. And the only reason I can think of that you're not doing it is because--"

But he stops. He can't say it. Not Bucky. Bucky fights. Why isn't he-- 

"You're an idiot," Bucky says.

"Maybe," Steve agrees. "Maybe you and me both. You're not supposed to tap out at fifty."

"I was supposed to tap out at 27."

Anger, sudden; molten. Steve clenches a fist. "No you _weren't_."

"Now who's stubborn?"

"This isn't fair. It's not--"

"Nothing," Bucky says, "about any of this has ever been fair. Don't talk to me about fair."

Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it again. "Why don't you want to _live?_ " he says finally, desperately.

"I do want to live!" Bucky shouts at him. It's weird, now, how his anger breaks: nothing and then everything, with no growth to it unless that's what he wants to show. "That's the entire point! Steve -- what I don't want to do is to hand my body back over to scientists so a few fucking stubborn assholes can keep their grip on the status quo. You want me to torture myself back to invincibility? Huh? Is that what you think is 'fair'? Every time you reappear in my life, Steve, I swear to God, all you ever do is look me over and find something to fix."

"I'm not trying to _fix_ you."

"But reality's not fucking good enough for you, is it? You have to get stuck on a hypothetical and decide that's what I _deserve_. I am not fixable." Bucky picks up his shirt and shows him his scars, as though to prove the fact of it. "This is reality. This is the fact of the matter. You seem to forget that the serum is something that Hydra _did_ to me. I didn't want it, and if I go in and submit to it again, I am becoming the eternal killing machine they tried to turn me into. I won't do it. I can't." 

Bucky takes a shuddering breath, and Steve stands up tall; he hadn't seen the upset in him. He was so distracted by Bucky's anger that he couldn't see the fear underlying it all. "I am mortal," Bucky tells him, voice shaking. "I am a _human fucking being,_ Rogers, and I'm sorry that's not good enough for your esteemed fucking standards. I'm sorry a superhero is all you deserve--"

"It's not," Steve says, incredulous. "That's not what this is about, you know I've always--"

"But it's not what I deserve." He taps at his chest with his own bunched fingers, showing him the feeling there. "I want a life. I want to fight until I'm done fighting, and I want to do it with the people I like. I want to do it for as long as I can without preserving it artificially. That's what a life is. I'm not interested in an elixir of eternal life. It can burn for all I care. And I'm not gonna engage in an endless fight with you about it either. I don't have the patience, and I sure as shit don't have the time. You either need to accept the facts, or get out." He lifts his shirt again. "I'm dying, Steve."

"Stop," Steve whispers, eyes shutting hard.

Bucky nods and walks over to the door, holding it open. "Have a nice time in California."

Steve knows he should go. He promised himself he wouldn't draw this out. 

They stare at each other a minute, air full with a thousand things left unsaid.

Finally, Steve steps slowly forward -- right toward Bucky, ignoring the open door. "I came here to say goodbye properly."

Bucky swallows, head shaking, like he can't quite believe him. "You really..." 

He trails off, makes his jaw square again with resolve, but Steve reads the question. He frowns his surprise. "Yeah," he says slowly. "You told me to." 

Bucky stares at him, face inscrutable. 

"I gotta go, Buck. At least… for a while. I dunno. Maybe I'll turn out to be a better man than I--"

"Don't come back if you're leaving," Bucky says, firm again, but it isn't right. "I don't want to waste any more time on false hope."

Steve stares, then nods. Somehow, the anger is ebbing out of Bucky's face. Steve steps forward again and reaches a careful hand. "I was always going to fight, Bucky. You knew that. It must've occurred to you, talking to... my ghost."

Bucky shuts his eyes hard.

"But you want something from me that I don't have it in me to give. You have this… acceptance. I don't. I never have. I have to fight, Bucky, you know that's who I am. And I'm sorry. I really am. I want you to know that. God knows I wish I could make you happy, but -- can you imagine me sitting here and biting my tongue? If we'd had time together--"

"It's been barely a week," Bucky says throatily, "and you seem comfortable making a call--"

"I'm not," Steve says. "You did that. You're the one saying you want half of me or not at all." 

Bucky stares at him, eyes square. 

"And I hate the idea of you facing this alone. I hate it. I hate it and I don't want it and God knows I want to fight against it, but that's exactly what you don't want. You don't want me if it means reacting viscerally against the idea of you dying if you don't have to, and if the only way you'll have me is if I shut the fuck up -- if you want me to sit in silence when there's a solution--"

"It's not a _solution!_ "

"It saved my life," Steve says. "It saved _me._ Why do you think you're better?"

Bucky blinks at him, stunned. Steve takes a steadying breath. He doesn't want to fight. 

He doesn't want to fight.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry, Bucky. I wish I could think of -- but I was never gonna stay here and be quiet. You always knew I was going to fight, and if you can't handle that, then I -- I'm trying to respect your wishes, here. I don't know--"

"I want you to stay," Bucky grinds out, voice unsteady. Then he takes a sobering breath, like he hadn't known if he was going to say it. 

Steve takes one too, but it doesn't give him ground. He swallows hard, looks to the ceiling. "You've wanted my ghost," Steve mutters, voice dragging low. "If you didn't think I'd find out about this and fight, then I'm sorry, Bucky. But you never wanted me at all."

Bucky looks at him, throat working. Steve can't stand the way emotion sits in his mouth without words to express it. He loves him, he can't help it; he entwines the fingers of one hand with Bucky's, sliding his other until he's tipped Bucky's head back.

"I'm gonna say goodbye this time," he tells him, and then Steve glances his lips across Bucky's mouth -- chaste but lasting, enough to convey what he wishes he could bring himself to say aloud.

  


Bucky's thumb presses against the vein in his wrist. It's not that Bucky's chasing him, but he's holding him there. He's breathing hard through his nose. Steve lets the feeling take him over, leans into this for one last minute-- 

Bucky cranes his neck forward and catches more of Steve's mouth. 

Steve folds at _once_. He leans into it, backing Bucky hard against the door as he closes it for him. He acts from a place of passion and sorrow combined. He kisses Bucky hard with the fear that it might be the last time; his throat burns with emotion until he has to pull back. 

He leans his forehead against Bucky's where his head rests against the door. "I'm sorry," Steve whispers. "I love you, I hope that you know. I'm an asshole, I know--" 

"Stop. Wait, just--" 

"Just tell me you won't settle. Whatever time you have left--" 

" _Steve._ " 

"--you don't deserve halfways. Tell someone who you are. It's your last chance for -- don't you dare settle for less than you--" 

He's cut off by Bucky's furious breath; by the way he wrenches his fingers in Steve's hair. "I don't want to compromise." 

"I better go. I'm gonna say things I--" 

"You're not listening to me. I don't want to _compromise._ " 

Then he slams the door shut where Steve's tried to open it and wrenches his hand in Steve's hair. 

They kiss hard. Bucky's furious with him, Steve can tell. Whatever this feeling is, this ferocious intention, it's meant to chasten him, but it's going right to his dick. Bucky's hand is brutal in his hair, the other pulling at his hip, and it's so much contact and passion that Steve feels lightheaded, wanting more of it, wanting to give himself for Bucky to _take._

"Stay," Bucky murmurs into his mouth. "Just stay. Just -- _stay,_ " and then he's kissing him again and Steve can't think -- Bucky's backing him against the table until it hits the back of his thighs. Bucky drags his teeth along his throat and _grinds_ , hands at Steve's waist, holding him down, and Steve moans, overwhelmed. He grips in Bucky's hair and kisses him back. 

Bucky's body contorts like a crashing wave. Steve takes the opportunity he's given -- slides off the table and backs Bucky up, down the hall, against the wall, Steve tearing their clothes off as they go. They pause to slam against the wall with Steve's hand at Bucky's dick and Bucky gives a choking sound, his chest heaving, his back flush and trapped. It's the night they'd kissed if they'd done it properly: Steve, taking Bucky apart. Bucky, lost to it, knowing it, and still letting him. 

Bucky's tongue is hot in his mouth, possessive, controlling, as he pushes Steve back. Steve can barely keep his breath. He is backed into the bedroom and Bucky kicks the door shut behind him, then shoves _Steve_ against the wall, now -- dropping to his knees, shoving the pants off his hips and taking Steve into his mouth in one sheathing gesture. 

Steve doesn't breathe. Bucky pulls off. He barely breathes then. He holds Bucky's face with two bracing hands. Emotion crests behind his eyes, blurring them, burning his throat; Bucky takes him down again and hums, makes these sounds like this is where he wants to be, like taking Steve's dick into his mouth is all he's wanted for eighteen years. 

Steve can't stand it; he fights hard to get his breath, letting Bucky suck him off, his hands gripping at Steve's hips. "God," Steve whispers, trying to keep still; "Bucky, God, I--" and in no time he's gone; Bucky's mouth is a beautiful vice. His hips push forward, he's straining with emotion, and _Jesus,_ God, there's a sob in his chest-- 

Steve thrusts, shallowly, but it doesn't take much. Bucky surrounds him, envelopes him, makes him feel whole. He comes hard into his mouth in a short, frantic minute, and Bucky swallows every last drop of him without missing a beat. 

He pulls back, head bowed. His thumbs caressing at the bones of Steve's hips, the crown of his head landing against Steve's thigh, like he's too overcome to look at him. 

Steve tilts his chin up. "Stand up," he whispers. "Please." 

Bucky rises. He plants his face in the crook of Steve's neck. Steve takes him in close, working his hands in his hair, pressing lips at his brow until they both stop shaking. 

"Did you mean it?" Steve murmurs. "When you told me to stay." 

"Yeah," Bucky says. "I… I just really hate to compromise." 

Steve almost laughs; he sets a hand at his back, staying and desperate. "I have to fight for you." Steve can't get his voice to stay level no matter what he does; he clears it, in a last attempt at dislodging feeling. "You have to let me fight for you." 

Bucky nods. God help them both, Bucky nods against his shoulder. "You have to let me call off the conversation," he grits out. His hands scan steady over the breadth of Steve's back. "Sometimes I will be fucking tired, Steve. I don't want my life to become one long argument." 

Steve drags his lips against Bucky's temple, breathing him in: those thin streaks of grey, the way he smells after sex. "Then I need you to think about what I have to say. I need you to think about things. I need you to consider alternatives. This can't be..." 

He trails off, voice dying again. Bucky strokes his lips against his neck, other hand holding him still as he does it, thumb firm and staying and delicious at his jaw. "You have to accept that I might never change my mind," Bucky says. Then he does pull back and coughs out a laugh, dragging his thumb at the corner of Steve's eye. "Stop that." 

"You stop it," Steve says, and brushes at the tear track on Bucky's cheek. He holds his hand there, thumb against his jaw, and then he leans forward and kisses him, the world's softest thing. "If you'll hear me out, Bucky. If you'll at least listen to me. I will try to accept that you might…" 

If he can't quite say it, he hopes that Bucky believes him. 

"Thank you," Bucky whispers, and scans his lips over Steve's. "Please fucking stay." 

"Well, I know how you hate compromise." 

"I really fucking do," Bucky says, and then they're kissing again -- and then Steve's switched their places, set Bucky against the wall, and fallen hard to his knees, to offer Bucky the same devotion that he's shown to him. 

  



	13. The Past, the Present, and the Future

  


Steve wakes up to Bucky pulling away from him.

"Ungh," Steve says, arms reaching after him. 

Bucky laughs softly and fits a hand against his. "Inventory," he says softly. Steve opens his eyes to see Bucky looking at him, smiling, kind and affectionate in the bright morning. "I gotta. I'm sorry. I wish I could make you breakfast."

"Natasha says you do inventory on Tuesdays to kick bedfellows out after dancing on Mondays," Steve croaks at him.

"Natasha talks too much." Bucky cards a hand through Steve's hair and grins. "Just supposed to distract me if you went to California. Stay as long as you want. Key's back where it was. Walk the dog for me, would you?"

"Mmyeah," Steve says, and lets his hand go only reluctantly when Bucky pulls it away; and Steve blinks himself awake watching Bucky move around the room, pulling one shirt off and replacing it with another, stepping into underwear and then into jeans. 

Before he can leave the room Steve's pulled himself together enough to crawl halfway across the bed and pull Bucky back down onto it, tangling his fingers in his hair and kissing him long and deep, and without the lingering threat of misery hounding them.

"Trap," Bucky mutters, pulling slowly away from him. "Beautiful man, warm bed, sunny room -- gotta be."

"God, are you suave again?" Steve croaks after him.

"Believe me, no one hates it more than me." Bucky grabs a hair tie off the dresser as he leaves the room. "I'll untrain myself eventually."

"I like it."

"You would," Bucky calls back; and after the jingling of Burrito's collar and the closing of the door, Steve throws himself back against the pillows and smiles into the sunny room.

  


***

  


Steve takes Burrito to the park for a good long while, unable to quit smiling when Burrito jumps up on the bench next to him to stare out over the lake. By the time they return home, Steve finds himself ravenous, like his lost appetite from the last few days catches up with him all at once. He throws open a few cupboards, finding the dinner they abandoned wrapped up in the fridge, but as Steve stares at the shine of the aluminum foil, he realizes all he really wants is to eat his mother's famous pierogies.

He smiles at the sign above the diner entrance for a while before pushing inside, taking a seat at the counter.

Bucky gives him a disappointed once-over as he enters, like his appearance here coupled with his sunny disposition is a personal affront to Bucky's own disheveled indignation. Yet as Bucky rips an order off his pad and shoves it toward the cook, Steve sees that telling twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

He beams in the face of it, leaning hard on his arms, deliriously happy that Bucky's happy to see him here. "You said something about breakfast."

"What d'you want," Bucky says. His eyes flick into the distance and back again, as though surreptitiously assessing something he doesn't like.

"Sarah's pierogies still on special?"

Bucky knocks on the passthrough and asks the cook for pierogies in rapid Spanish. "Free of charge."

"Thank you," Steve says, grinning helplessly.

"Don't get used to it." Bucky leans hard toward him, trying for glowering. "Some breakfast."

"I had a craving."

And Bucky continues to stare him down and Steve keeps grinning up cheekily, and for a moment Steve forgets what year it is. He just pays attention to the reluctant pull at the corner of Bucky's mouth and how weirdly hot he is in that couli-stained apron. 

He can't stand it anymore. He hooks a finger in the front of Bucky's shirt and pulls him down until he gets, at least, a chaste, smiling kiss. 

"Menace," Bucky mutters under his breath and he pulls away.

"Yeah," Steve grins after him. He tries to force his face to neutrality. His cheeks hurt. He's not used to smiling this much. "Actually I'm pleasantly surprised to see you. Something going on? Thought you'd be in the back."

"Yeah," Bucky says. "There's a guy here..." But then he trails off, shoulders giving a bit of a jolt as his eyes follow someone walking by the window. Steve blinks to the side, knowing better than to turn around, but once Bucky sternly waves whoever it is inside with two beckoning fingers, he turns and lands two cups of coffee down on the counter, looking even more annoyed than when he started.

The figure depositing itself rudely down on the stool beside Steve's is familiar.

"Oh," Steve says with surprise.

"Oh," Jules says back. He points at him, nodding, looking faintly pleased. "Yeah! You're looking better." He gestures at Bucky. "Guess you found Jack."

"I found Jack."

"He help you out?"

"No question." 

Bucky's frowning wordlessly at Jules, pouring them both a cup of coffee for reasons Steve's not clear on. As Jules glances mildly up at him and then away, Steve figures out that Bucky's buying himself time to figure out how to start.

Finally Bucky turns away to slam the coffee pot back where it belongs, turning back to Jules with stern concentration. "So."

"So what?" says Jules.

"So where the hell have you _been_? I haven't seen you in two goddamn years."

"I've been around."

" _Around._ "

"Yeah. Around."

Steve's pierogies come up. Bucky grabs them from the passthrough and throws them down in front of Steve without looking at him. "So are you up to shit or what?"

"I'm not up to _shit_."

"You better not be. Law enforcement catches wind of your operation--"

"I don't need a dad," Jules says loudly. "Get me some eggs."

Bucky shakes his head at him, but he keeps his mouth shut. "Can you pay?"

"No."

Bucky knocks on the passthrough and asks the cook for what sounds like two eggs, sausages, potatoes, and whole-wheat toast.

"Sourdough," Jules says.

"Whole wheat," Bucky says sternly, leaning forward on his hands, "because you don't eat properly."

"I eat veggies all the time!"

"You eat other people's leftovers." Bucky slaps him upside the head. "Where the hell have you _been_?"

"I've been busy, I told you! I saw Will."

"Will isn't me, you know better than that. Why are you here? You got a reason, apart from a free meal?"

Jules shrugs.

Bucky switches to Spanish. He asks Jules something about the police, and though Jules shrugs again, he reluctantly launches into a long-winded response.

"UFoE business, huh?" Steve says dryly, looking between them.

"Don't you get smart with me now," Bucky says to Steve. "I can only deal with one at a time."

"Why are you even here?" Jules asks Bucky. "I thought you'd be in inventory."

"What, do you come here when I'm not around?"

"Sometimes."

Jules looks shy, suddenly. Bucky stares at him for several long seconds. "You sweet on Laura or what?"

Jules just slouches as far as he can on a stool.

"Jesus," Bucky whispers. "You pay _her_ for your food, at least?"

"Yeah."

"Tip and everything?"

"Of course I tip her."

"Twenty percent?"

Jules looks anywhere but at Bucky. "Thirty."

Bucky sighs at him piteously. "God help you. She'll tear you apart."

"She already does," Jules sighs.

Steve can't help but snicker. Jules glares at him.

"Listen," Steve says defensively, "if she's worth it--"

" _Don't_ give him romance advice," Bucky says sternly.

"--you'll know," Steve says, raising his hands in surrender. "That's all I was gonna say."

"Don't listen to a word Steve tells you," Bucky says to Jules, but if he was going to say more, he's distracted again by whatever was dividing his attention before. "Listen," Bucky says suddenly, leaning close to Steve. "You gonna be here for a while?"

"I can be."

"I'm gonna get back there and finish inventory, send Laura back out here. She generally knows how to handle herself, but tact isn't her strong suit. There's a guy in the booth near the door sitting alone, wearing a suit, with coffee and a notebook -- if that guy so much as says _anything_ that's not about the food here, you think you could pose as a server starting your shift and take over for her?" Bucky pulls an apron out from under the counter and shoves it surreptitiously toward him.

"Sure," Steve says, sipping his coffee.

"I think he's just a fed, but I can't -- tell the fucking difference anymore. I don't like the way he's waiting to order until she comes back."

"You want me to follow him when he goes?"

"Nah, just see if you can catch a license plate through the window. That'd shed too much suspicion."

"You got it."

"Thank you," Bucky says, brushing his fingers against Steve's hand.

Jules gives an inquisitive grunt, then looks from Bucky to Steve with intrigue. "Hang on."

Bucky rolls his eyes dramatically. "Settle down."

"You're not _him_?"

Steve looks up with surprise. "You know about me?"

"Blond guy named Steve, strength-enhanced, never really knows what's going on? Yeah, I've heard of you."

Steve turns his frown on Bucky. "Is that how people talk about me?"

"You finally showed _up_?" Jules goes on.

Steve exhales and returns to his coffee. Jules shoves an egg into his mouth. "And you two just picked up again after all that?"

"Shut up, Julian," Bucky says, handing his apron to Laura as she appears from the back. "Done?"

"Stacked," she says. 

"Gracias," Bucky says, then: "Atención."

"Sí."

Steve imagines their staff meetings must be unusually succinct. 

He also gets the impression Laura doesn't think much of him. Ignoring Jules and his moon-eyes entirely, she instead focuses narrowed eyes on Steve, dragging a single, solitary fingernail across the counter in front of him as though to remind him of her claws.

"Boy," Steve mutters into his coffee as she passes.

"I don't envy you," Jules says. He seems to have regained his appetite now that Laura's taken the coffee pot very far away from him for refills. "Lotta people would die for Jack. You hurt him again, you're asking for a world of--"

"I didn't hurt him last time," Steve says indignantly. "I can't control the time travel that happens to me."

"Don't think anyone cares about that," Jules says through a mouthful of potatoes.

And Steve's about to give a reply, but his head perks to the side as the man in the corner booth starts asking Laura where she's from; and Steve grabs the apron off the counter without a second's hesitation, stepping up beside her with a convincingly lazy gait. "I got this, Laura, you go on break, Jack said," he tells her; and he gives the seeming federal agent a polite smile, introduces himself as Graham, and helpfully cites the Bible when the man asks him about Eden.

  


***

  


The following days pass in a haze of lust and crashing emotion. An undercurrent of tension fuels intense and indispensable lovemaking, structured predictably around reconciliatory bliss and arguments devolving into breaking shouts. After an impressively circular argument about how big an organism has to be before it's considered a lifeform, Bucky had kissed him stupid and rutted them both off against the doorframe, which -- despite being eminently satisfying -- did strike Steve as dangerous as a general policy.

He winds up asking Sam for advice when he goes back to reclaim his clothing and winds up surprised to learn Sam has a lot of it. "First of all, don't let him do that ever," Sam tells him. "Not even once. He tries to use sex to end an argument, you walk away and come back an hour later. Try the argument again. Because that is how he ends them, every single time, and then you never want to start up again, because then you just want to get along."

"He never used to do that."

"You all are fighting over policy issues and life-and-death shit, while we used to fight over the correct gauge of mop strings required to efficiently clean a tile with grout. When you're fighting about things that stupid, you get used to finding any excuse to throw an argument away."

Steve just grins at him, arms crossed over his chest. "So what is the correct gauge of--"

"Don't," Sam says gravely. "I am so serious. I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to think about it. Dark days, my friend. Those were dark fucking days."

So Steve goes back home and tries the argument again, but the only thing that follows is Bucky chasing him around the apartment until he corners him against the back wall of the kitchen. By then they're both flushed and laughing and it's easy to strip each other's clothes off, so Steve decides it's maybe not so bad, in the short term, this balance. They'll have the fights that matter when they're done making love.

It's in blissed-out exhaustion that they're lying tip-to-toe, half-naked on the sofa and lost in their respective books. Suddenly Steve studies Bucky with enough intensity that it annoys Bucky into looking back.

"What," Bucky says acidly, far from really annoyed. 

"What happened to me when that kid took me out of time, according to you?" Steve asks him. "How was it possible I disappeared for that long?"

Bucky sighs and adjusts his posture on the sofa. "We don't know," he says simply. "We've been talking about it -- again, I mean, since you got back. There's some weird things that point to… I dunno. It's hard to make heads or tails of. We're pretty sure it was phase-shifting."

"I figured that out from Sam's reports."

Bucky frowns. "Sam's reports?"

"UFoE stuff. Much easier to parse than your notes."

"He let you look at those?"

"Yeah."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Well, I guess -- whatever. It doesn't matter. Stark's been stuck on some calculations since last week. He figured out how many days you were gone for, which is a weird number -- 6,420 days -- but anyone who knows shit about math knows that stuff doesn't matter. I don't know why he's on about it. He seems to think that because it's a fixed, seemingly non-random value, the kid sent you forward with some kind of intention, like he was trying to figure out how long he needed to get away from you and just fucked up on the calculations. If Stark's on the right track, the kid likely tried to cast a field over himself, cast it on you instead, and in his panic sent you way the fuck further forward than he meant. Remember when I caught the kid by the hood and he snapped away from me, like he was chucking himself forward a second in time... I figure he could just choose a destination at some point in the future and--"

"But that doesn't make any sense," Steve says.

"Yeah, I know. It can be a little--"

"No -- Buck, the kid couldn't have gone forward in time. He'd have still been in your grasp if he did."

Bucky stares at him. "What?"

"He had to have gone back, to a point before you grabbed him. Or he wouldn't have been clear of it, he still would have been caught--"

Bucky waves a hand to get Steve to stop talking, but he doesn't say anything for a long time. He just shuts his eyes tight and tilts his head toward the floor, like he can't really believe he's having to think about this. 

"Interface," he finally says, a little weak, hand over his mouth. "Call Tony Stark."

The interface rings. Bucky rubs his eyes so hard with his prosthetic his skin comes back pink. 

"Yeah," Tony says a second later.

"The kid," Bucky says, "went back in time."

The silence is poignant. Then, a distant clatter like Tony's putting something down. 

"Pardon me?"

"I can't believe I didn't fucking think of it, but the kid. He went back. I had him, in my hands. I blinked. He was no longer in my hands. But he was also a pace ahead, and Steve said the only way that was possible--"

"Are you telling me you didn't remember this?"

"--is if he went _back_ a second so he could predict my movement. Only none of the rest of _us_ went back too, so our eyes reconciled the fucking difference. He was out of my grip, it was like I never _had_ him, he was two steps ahead from where he was--"

"Barnes."

"I thought he'd _teleported._ "

"Are you very fucking sure this happened?" Tony says. His voice sounds harsh, like he's as furious as Bucky looks.

"Steve?" Bucky says.

"Yeah," says Steve.

"Holy Christ," says Tony. "It wasn't a wormhole." There's a long silence on the other end. "Sequential entanglement."

Bucky's eyelids flicker. He looks tired, but he's listening. "Okay."

"Time is necessary for a state to change. State A, then state B -- change can only happen given time. No time, no change. Hence the Rogers effect."

Bucky looks at Steve. "Nothing happened to him. He got taken out of time, but he was -- there?"

"That's a possible conclusion. That possibly happened. It's hard to say if a person _is_ anything once he's been taken out of time; he can't _is_ \-- most accurately, he _isn't._ But here's the other thing: time still exists for the rest of us. We have to experience time even though the person out of it doesn't, and as soon as Steve reappeared, so did time for him. Cause and effect. For Steve, the effect followed the cause immediately. For the rest of us, time passed in the middle. For us, the effect was postponed, but for him it didn't matter. Enough time could have passed to end the Earth and Steve would've eventually appeared exactly where he left and suffocated amid the rubble." Tony sighs. It drags on its way out, like Tony's angry or annoyed at himself as much as anyone. "That's how the kid went back in time -- he saw the effect, decided he didn't want it, and linked back to a point—made his cells link back to an earlier form of him, with his new present memories, and replaced him to make this timeline. That's the one we continued in -- the one where you didn't grab him. He experienced it as though you never did, but time applied to you. So you saw yourself grab him, and then you saw him gone."

"He went back in time," Bucky says emptily.

"Entanglement," Tony repeats. "In another timeline, you held onto him, maybe Rogers never got lost in space." He sighs. "That opens some doors."

Bucky stares at Steve wordlessly. Tony seems content to sit on the line in silence.

"Time applies to him now," Tony says. "Entanglement fades as cells experience time. It's been -- what, two weeks? More? I don't think we could send him back at this point to, you know, activate those dormant particles for good. It's not like a wormhole. Time matters. He's two weeks too late to go back to the place he disappeared."

"Yeah," Bucky says.

"But there might be something we can… do. There might be enough..." A moment's trepidation, audible across the city. "Barnes."

"Yeah."

"How long did you wait there?"

Bucky winces and rubs a hand over his face. "What do you mean?"

"At the site. When your honey disappeared. You camped out a while, just in case he came back. Ballpark it for me. How long?"

Bucky suddenly averts his eyes. "Why?"

"Because if the interval between then and now is something like 6,420 days, between Steve's cells and the interval of time, we might be able to strike some kind of harmony. Get those cells back in 2018 to interact with Steve's cells in 2036. Put him back in time for a minute, two weeks after he left. To talk to you." Tony exhales hard. "If you want."

Steve fights hard to keep his face neutral as Bucky looks at him, but he wants it. To give Bucky closure, information...

"It changes the timeline," Bucky grinds out, turning his face away again. "Doesn't it? Steve talks to me two weeks after he's gone and I'm not shocked to find him in that farmer's market. It changes things."

"Yeah, but--"

"No," Bucky says clearly. "Sorry, but no."

"Oh, let me finish, would you?" Tony bites irritably, and Bucky frowns at the ceiling as though that's where Tony is. "It won't change _this_ timeline. This timeline already exists. Time is linear, I don't have to tell you that. We make this work, we do the same thing that kid did when he rewound a few seconds to prevent himself from getting caught -- we create two outcomes. We're living the scenario where he _wasn't_ caught by you, but in some other world, he _was_ caught, and that world proceeded accordingly. Probably Rogers never disappeared. Maybe you did instead, or maybe it was Wilson, or maybe no one did because you figured out how to subdue him before he could. We don't know, because we're not part of that world. Same way this world won't know about this. Nothing changes for _you -- you_ were never warned. Everything that we have lived will elapse exactly the way it did. If we send Steve back to have a little chat with you, another Barnes would branch off from there armed with the knowledge we gave him. I dunno." Tony sighs, heavy. "I dunno. Maybe it would've been a comfort to know Rogers was stuck out of time. Maybe not."

"It would've been," Bucky says quietly.

"Well…" Tony leaves the conclusion open, unsaid. Then he clicks his tongue, and the mood of the conversation turns on its head. "This whole thing could've been avoidable, you know, if you'd remembered this earlier."

Just like that, Bucky's expression contorts into incredulity. " _How?_ It's not like we could've brought Steve out of time anyway. We wouldn't have even known what happened to him until he came back--"

"Eighteen years," Tony says. "Eighteen years you had to think of this."

"I wasn't exactly focused on the mechanics of whether the kid was in my hand or not!"

"Why not? He should've been. Is your head so far up your--"

"Oh, go to hell."

"Gladly," Tony says, "and I'll make you a multi-phase projection machine while I'm there. Just for you, Barnes. Because I'm that kind of guy." And then he hangs up the call as Bucky snarls at the ceiling.

Steve thinks of a handful of lighthearted comments, but none of them actually make it to his mouth. He waits for Bucky to look at him, trying to force his face into neutrality.

Bucky must see something on his face anyway, because he sighs at him like Steve's the most predictable bastard in the world. "You wanna talk to him?" Bucky says around a sigh, rubbing his eyes like he's tired just thinking about it.

"Yeah," Steve says, even though he doesn't need to.

"He's not me. You heard him. It won't be. It won't change--"

"I don't care." He pushes his foot in Bucky's face and smiles at him broad when Bucky throws it away from him. "He's the Bucky I left. If there's anything I can do to help..."

Steve trails off and runs a thumb at Bucky's ankle, and Bucky sighs and takes Steve's feet into his lap. 

Then they sit there a while, just being what they are, in beautiful, caring silence.

  


***

  


"Now this might not work."

Steve nods. "I know."

"Don't get your hopes up. First time we've tried anything like this. I'm good, but..." Tony pauses. "End of list."

Standing humbly with his hands shoved in his pockets, Steve smiles, endeared. Tony gives him that look again, like he's been given pause, but shifts back into action before Steve can ask why. "So we're trying to make your particles from 18 years ago recognize the person you are now and activate back into time, thinking they're you. Not for real; it's a projection, a fake, a phony. He can't touch you and you can't touch him; you're not really there. It's an image and that's all. Got it?" 

"Got it," Steve says. He swallows hard. 

Tony doesn't care if he's nervous or not. In fact he doesn't look at him at all, too preoccupied with his machines. "We're in the same location, so that's three matching dimensions. It's a puppet show of cosmic dimensions -- you step into the machine, the machine tries to meld this moment in time with that one, your particles here pull on the strings of your particles over there and time passes there and here in the same space for a moment. Then we go on until the connection de-stabilizes or the dimension does, whichever comes first." Tony smiles thinly. "Or we get kicked out of here for being disruptive, which, you know... people's homes." 

Tony finally looks up and gestures Steve onto the beacon in the courtyard, marked by a single solitary light. Steve steps onto it, forcing his limbs loose. "We're just overriding the phase shift for a brief period of time so you can talk to Barnes about… whatever it is you want to talk about. Don't try to stay, you can't do it."

"I just gotta tell him about this pistachio ice cream," Steve deadpans. "He's gonna lose his mind."

Standing far off to the side, arms crossed, Bucky snorts.

"I dunno how it's gonna go," Tony goes on. "Maybe you'll be able to move your mouth but the sound won't carry. Depends how complete the transposition's gonna be. I've never done this before."

"It's gonna be fine, Tony."

"It's an experiment. A trial. A rehearsal, if you will."

"Rehearsal for _what_?" Bucky grouses in the background.

"Enough from the peanut gallery," Tony says mildly, adjusting his equipment.

Bucky looks at Steve likes he's sorry they invited Tony at all. Steve smiles faintly and shrugs, trying to fight against his rising apprehension. 

"We're pretty sure I'm not gonna project into the middle of a construction zone in, say, 2026, right?" Steve asks.

"Well…" Tony says.

"God," says Bucky. He turns away to pace. "We really shouldn't be doing this."

"We are," Steve and Tony say at once. "Okay," Tony continues. "You ready to give this a whirl?"

Steve nods shortly. Tony flips a switch. "Your particles should be drawn to the other particles -- if it's working, that is. Don't hesitate to go where they're pulling; they're just trying to, you know, unite you. Bring yourself back to yourself. No actual vacuum here, you're fine."

He nods his understanding, but even as Tony's machine purrs to life, Steve doesn't feel a thing -- until he does. He feels magnetized forward just by an inch; he leans a little, trying to meet the impulse, until he feels himself lock in, one limb at a time.

Steve grunts, looking down at himself. His vision has doubled. Before him, the courtyard still stands, but there's also a ceiling and a dusty concrete floor. "Whoa," Steve mutters, before he can stop himself, and then the warehouse slides out of focus. He chases it with a gasp, forcing himself to follow the impulse to snap back in, until he blinks his eyes clear and tries to block the courtyard out.

"Yeah," he says absently, moving his jaw in its socket. He opens his mouth, shuts his eyes tight, then looks -- sees the warehouse again, if he focuses his eyes. "Yeah, I think it worked."

Tony hisses and must fist-pump behind him, but Steve forces himself not to pay attention, to try to find Bucky without moving his head. "I can't tell when I am. The warehouse is here, but it's not... it's cleared out, it's nothing like what I left."

"I did that," Bucky says -- _this_ Bucky, on this side of time. "There should be, ah… a lawn chair. Stripey, kind of shitty. You might have to turn to find it, I can't remember…"

It takes him a moment to find it, but -- "Oh," Steve says, stomach falling out from under him.

It must have reverberated in the room, because Bucky -- _that_ Bucky, from eighteen years ago, hair draped in sharp curtains over his face -- jolts awake from where he'd been sleeping in the chair. He looks like he's barely left it in days; his face sports several days' growth, his clothes well wrinkled. 

He looks so _young_ , impossibly so. He looks...

"Hi," Steve breathes at him.

Bucky's eyes are fixed right on him, but Steve can't imagine what he sees. Is he transparent, even visible? Steve tries to look down, but all he can see is his own corporeal form, standing in the courtyard. "Hi," Steve says again. His heart's pounding hard enough to make it unsteady. "Hey. Bucky, can you hear me?"

Bucky gets out of his chair, stepping slowly forward. His brow's creased with devastation, mouth turned down -- horrified, Steve thinks. He must be horrified. 

Steve holds his eye, waiting for him to say something. Bucky reaches out--

His hand goes right through him.

Steve's stomach lurches. He turns his face away, exhaling hard. When he looks up again, Bucky's set a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and distant, like he doubts it. Like he's not really sure--

"We're on a schedule," Tony says behind him. 

Steve's shocked by it; he turns his head. "Yeah," he says, then faces forward again. Now, it seems, Bucky's tracing his movement. He must be able to see something, he must--

"What are you?" Bucky croaks at him. His chin starts to shake; he slaps a hand back over his mouth to cover it.

"I'm me," Steve tells him, "I'm Steve, I swear to you -- I'm me, Bucky. Can't you see?" 

Bucky doesn't answer. He just stares at him, eyes wide. "I -- I'm gonna try to be brief, Buck," Steve says, pushing through it, swallowing around a dry mouth. "I got -- something happened to me, and I'm not gonna be able to come back to you. Not for a long time. I -- I'm out of phase." He coughs out an incredulous laugh. He reaches out to take Bucky's hand, but it slips right through him. Bucky's breath hitches; Steve's left assuming he can hear him. "God, Bucky, listen -- that kid, in the warehouse. The one who did this to me. He's an Enhanced. He has the ability to go backward _and_ forward in time, but we don't figure that out until -- it's not important. What's important is that he cast me forward -- like, really… far forward. He didn't cut a wormhole; I'm just out of phase, I don't experience time. As far as spacetime is concerned, I don't even exist. I'm okay, but I'm gonna stay out of phase for a really long time. I don't understand the science here, I'm sorry, you know it's always over my head, but -- I'm here, but I'm not. I never leave this place, but you can't get to me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Bucky. I'm not gonna be there. There's so much I'm not gonna -- I never wanted to leave you, you gotta believe me. I never meant to leave you." He swallows. "Tell me you can hear me."

The hand's been falling slowly, slowly, from over Bucky's mouth. He searches Steve's eyes. "Yeah," he chokes out. "Yeah, I can hear you."

"Oh thank God," Steve says. "Now did you get all that? Because that was a lot of words, and I don't know if I can remember them a second time."

In front of him, Bucky coughs a devastated laugh. Behind him, another Bucky -- his older, more subdued counterpart -- makes a similar noise, so far away. "I got it," the Bucky in front of him says. "But you're not -- you're out of phase? How are you talking to me?"

"I'm out of phase. My particles are here, but I'm not -- in time. Don't ask me, I don't get it."

"I don't get it either."

"Give it time. Banner has some pretty good ideas, look for those in the 2020s."

Bucky gives a strangled, inquisitive note, eyes falling over his lips. Bucky reaches and tests a shaking hand along his arm, and though he doesn't make contact, Steve imagines he does. "How long?" Bucky whispers, then shuts his eyes hard; he shakes his head, clears his throat, and looks at him again. "How long?"

Steve feels like he's winded. He can't get a breath. "I… Bucky, it's... 2036. I don't come back to you until 2036."

Bucky blinks at him, then shakes his head. He stumbles backward, disbelieving.

"No," Steve says, and reaches out to stop him, but his hand goes through his arm; he curses abundantly, then forces himself to still. "Bucky, listen. You make it, okay? You _made_ it. You're here with me right now, and you're -- amazing. You have this life like you wouldn't believe. You're successful in every way. You built a life out of helping people, out of making their lives better, and I'm so goddamned proud of you. I wish I could show you the person you are, but this -- Bucky, hey. Bucky, come on."

Bucky's pacing in front of him, rigid with anxiety. Steve had forgotten it, forgotten the way he goes stiff and contorted. It's like his bodily form takes the shape of his pain. He keeps running his fingers through his hair, that long, draping mop, and Steve wishes he could stop, him, wishes he could reach out. 

"Listen to me, Bucky," he says instead. "You're gonna -- I believe in you. Listen, Bucky. You're gonna be fine. You're gonna be so beyond great. You built all this without me, you have this thing down--"

"I don't want it!" Bucky yells, clawing at the air in front of him. "What the fuck am I supposed to do for eighteen years, huh? I don't know how to do this! I don't know how to -- fuck, _Steve_!"

"I know," he says, "I know. Buck, I'm sorry, I'm so -- I wish I could come back. But the risk is too high. I do that and I risk funneling both our timelines into some kind of -- black hole? I don't know the science, but it's bad, and it's -- listen, I'm short on time. I'm sorry, I gotta -- I'm calling for a reason. I wanted to tell you that I'm not dead, I'm fine; I'm not even aging."

"Shut up," Bucky says. "Just come -- _through_. You're right there, why won't you--"

"And I wanted to tell you _when_ I'll be back," Steve says, voice wavering a little. "It's -- it was May 16th, 2036. May 16th, 2036, Bucky, right here, in the exact same spot. It was around six in the morning, maybe before, I don't remember -- the sun was rising, and I won't have a clue what's going on. I won't remember this conversation. This isn't him, it's -- me. But I'm not--"

"Steve," Bucky says, sounding exhausted, as though he's indulging him. 

Somewhere behind him, he can hear Tony tapping on the interface, a little bit frantic.

"Bucky," Steve says, voice low. "This is important, please listen to me. I need you to know -- your left side is dying." He gestures at Bucky's prosthetic, so archaic-looking now with its thick metal plates. "It's slow and you don't figure it out for a few years, but you're experiencing muscle death as a result of what Hydra did to you. You have to make nice with Tony and get treated for it, _fast_. It's the only way to make sure you don't have to take a serum re-upper later in life, or undergo successive surgeries to keep your function. That's why I'm calling -- you have to take this seriously. I mean it. You have to look into this. Swear to me you will -- if not tomorrow, then in the next couple years. _Please,_ Bucky -- I'd get on my knees if I thought that I could. I'm trying to save your life, your livelihood, your relationships -- please tell me you will. Bucky, please. Promise me."

Steve's voice gains a twinge, and Bucky must hear it; he cocks his head, his brow creasing back into sympathy, like he's taking him seriously in spite of his doubt. "Okay," he says emptily.

"Thank you," Steve breathes, moving his face to the sky. "Thank you."

"But," says Bucky, then seems to abandon the thought. He's standing there, breathing laboured, looking and sounding so goddamned _young._

Steve forces an unsteady hand vertical in the air with its palm facing forward; sees Bucky looking at it, then raising his own to meet it, neither of them touching but both at least here together.

"You're strong enough," Steve tells him, and Bucky's chin quakes at once. "I don't have any doubt in you. Listen -- rely on Natasha. She's your best friend now in a way I can't touch. She's a force to be reckoned with and you laugh with each other more than I've ever seen you laugh with anyone. And -- Sam. You and Sam, Bucky… don't be afraid to let him in. It doesn't seem like it now, but he's gonna be there for you. He cares for you in a way you don't yet know. You're good for each other in a way you can't understand, but trust me. Please trust me, you -- oh, hey, no." Steve tries to wrap his fingers around Bucky's wrist, but Bucky's not there; Steve isn't there. They're in the exact same place, only eighteen years apart. "Hey, come on. Buck…"

But Bucky's sobbing viciously, silently, inconsolably into his wrist in a way that Steve can't bear. Steve's hand flies up, bunching against his own mouth in a fist, and Bucky flickers in front of him; the warehouse fades. 

Steve gasps and presses down with his feet, clueless how to fix it, desperate to get back. "No! No! I'm not done with you, don't you dare!"

"Gimme a second," Tony says coarsely behind him, and then the image flickers back in; Steve's breath stops with relief as he tries to find Bucky's voice.

" _\--teve?_ " 

"Hey, I'm here," Steve says. "I'm right here, hang on, I'm trying to -- we don't have much more time."

"We really don't," Tony tells him. "Things are getting unsteady, pal, move it along."

"Okay," Steve says as he focuses on Bucky, and he sees that Bucky sees him; they fight to get their breathing down, standing so close together and never making touch. "I gotta go," Steve says, his teeth clenching hard. "I couldn't -- I hated that you never got a goodbye. I want you to know you can move on. I hate the idea of you waiting for me for all that time. You have other opportunities, _better_ ones, and you're such a beautiful man, Bucky. Go get yourself laid, I mean it. I know you know how."

Bucky's shoulders shake; he bows his head. Steve can't tell if it's in laughter or misery.

"It's okay if I get there and you're with someone else," Steve tells him. "It's okay if I get there and you're not there at all. It's not the end of the world. I'll find my way, Bucky. I don't want you to feel obligated."

"You're so fucking stupid," Bucky says thickly, and Steve finds it in him to laugh; he runs his ghosting thumb over Bucky's incorporeal hand.

"You're strong," Steve counters. "I believe in you. I can't begin to tell you how successful you are. You have the kind of life I always wanted for you, except -- that you're still a stubborn bastard. Accept some fucking help now and again, would you? Please. Let someone else take over for me while I'm gone."

"Steve, we gotta go," Tony says behind him.

"Okay," Steve says hurriedly. "That's all I got, I'm out of time. I'm so sorry I'm not there, but you have this in hand. Just remember May 16, 2036, but it's -- only if you want, Bucky. I just want you to be happy. I just love you so goddamned much, you gotta know I do, and--"

"Steve?" Bucky says, tear-stained face dropping into searching horror. Steve reaches out to him, gasping, and then--

And then Steve's standing alone in a courtyard in 2036.

He doesn't move for a long time, still but for the shallow pull of his breath in his chest. He stares where Bucky was, waiting for something. He doesn't know what. 

Behind him, Tony's machines power down. Steve's shoulders drop; he straightens; he tips his face to the sky, breathing in the spring air.

Steve closes his eyes and turns on the spot. 

When he opens them -- there's Bucky. Lines in his face. Streaks of grey in his hair. 

"Hi," Steve croaks. He's so relieved to see him. Part of him wondered if he wouldn't be; if he had changed things after all. His mouth twitches gently into a smile, fingers reaching high to run gently through his hair

"Hi." Bucky looks at Steve, inquisitive and open. "Are you... okay? Jesus, I mean..."

Steve sets his face against his neck and pulls him in, suddenly more exhausted than he's felt in a while. "I think so. I get the feeling that one's a happy ending."

"Yeah?" Bucky's smirking a little when Steve pulls back, but his eyelashes sit low on his cheeks with compassion.

"Yeah," Steve mutters. He slips a hand into the small of his back, and he's tangible, _here_ \-- Bucky, two decades later, able to be touched. Steve brushes a kiss against his lips as though to prove it -- finds he feels like himself, and tastes like it, too.

"Oh, brother," says Tony, behind them. "Are you two gonna make out, or are you gonna help me take this down? I built this machine for you, you know."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says to Steve, ignoring Tony's grousing outright. There's a crack in the phrase. Steve brushes it away with a thumb at his lip.

"I'm sorry, too." 

Bucky smiles at him, thin. "So am I disappointing or what? Now that you've seen the younger model."

"Yeah," Steve deadpans. "Only a hundred. Truly your heyday."

"Serum wasn't receding then."

"I hear they have plugs for that now."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Helloooo," Tony half-yells beside them. "Lots of heavy equipment here. If you're done your canoodling -- I mean, hell, even if you're not--"

"You hungry?" Steve asks.

Bucky laughs, a little incredulous. "Jesus. Are _you_?"

"I could eat. Kinda craving diner food." 

"Really?" Bucky turns and intertwines their fingers where Steve's thrown his arm over his shoulder. "I spend enough time in that place."

"I've just got this weird craving for dumplings."

"Abandon _me_ to clean this up myself," Tony mutters as they pass. "No problem. I'll just research the machine, conceptualize it, build it myself, drag it here, set it up for you, make sure it runs right without _devouring the entire universe_ for the sake of your maudlin goodbyes--"

"Just leave it, Stark," Bucky throws over his shoulder. "We'll pick it up in the morning."

"Pick -- _morning_? Out here in -- multi million dollar--!"

"Precious when he's speechless," Bucky says, smiling wry, and Steve stumbles to a stop. He has to kiss him, and so he does; and he breathes it all in, the Brooklyn spring air, the rhododendrons on the trees, Tony grousing in the distance, and him.

"Guys?" Tony says. 

"We should help him," Bucky murmurs against his mouth. 

"I'm gonna tell him you said that," Steve says, slowly turning back the way they came. 

"Don't you dare," says Bucky. 

"Hey, Tony?" 

Bucky shoves him into the street and throws dirt at his laughing back, and -- this is the present. Well, alright. 

Maybe it's not so terrible after all. 

  



	14. Epilogue

  


### Somewhere, in another universe...

  


Bucky stands with his arms crossed, waiting for the readings to change.

Sam checks his watch. "How long you gonna stand here?"

"You know how long."

"I didn't think you meant it."

Bucky looks over at him, eyebrow cocked. "Yeah, because I'm super cavalier about this kind of thing."

"This is going to pretty extreme measures just to win a bet, don't you think?"

"You're just bitter I never let it go."

"Now why would I be bitter?"

"Besides," Bucky mutters. "You know it's not about the bet."

"It's a little about the bet."

That's hard to deny, in the end. "Yeah, alright," Bucky says. "It's a little about the bet."

Beside them, the counter holds at zero.

"Sun's rising," Sam says.

"I've got eyes, Wilson."

"Hoo, boy. Breaking out the big guns, huh?"

"You've seen my big guns. This ain't them."

"Okay," Sam says shortly, turning in place. "Suddenly I get the impression I'm intruding."

Bucky reaches out with lightning reflexes, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him back. "Look."

Sam's eyes find the readout as he turns with a frown. "Oh… you have _got_ to be kidding me."

"He did it." Bucky watches the numbers tick higher in disbelief. "He actually fucking did it."

Sam keeps squinting at the readout while Bucky watches the spot in the middle of an empty lot, long since marked with an illuminated censor buried deep beneath the ground. Two minutes pass, then three -- and nothing changes. 

"Come on," Bucky says.

"Jack," says Sam. "I don't know--"

"Shut up," Bucky says, because there's a tension in the air. Something's going to happen, he can _feel_ it -- the needle swings higher, and then--

Out of nothing -- there is Steve.

He appears in the air and catches himself within a few paces. His arms splay to slow him in some familiar way as he realizes that the kid's not there; that the warehouse isn't there. Bucky and Sam turn to track him and his clothes are just the same -- he looks just the same. 

It was true. It was all true.

Bucky feels like he's taking his first breath in eighteen years. 

Steve, meanwhile, blinks around in abject confusion. "Wh--?" And that's him, alright; Bucky exhales at the sound of his voice. 

Steve spins around to the source of the noise. "Bucky," he says, as though a reflex, but then his face falls. He studies him, and then Sam, his shoulders falling hard.

"Don't panic," Bucky says. He tries to clear the waver from his throat. "We're here to -- it's not a trick, Steve. Alright? But you were gone, for… a while, and now..."

Bucky's practiced this speech a thousand times but it dries in his throat like he's run out of words. It's the way Steve looks at him, his brow knitting; it's the way his shoulders refuse to square.

"How long?" Steve asks, empty; trusting. He looks devastated, his youthful features graced by loss. Bucky hadn't accounted for this, when he'd thought about it. That Steve would believe him. That he'd start mourning so quickly.

"Eighteen years," Bucky rasps, and takes a hesitant step forward. He tries to splay a calming hand, but has to press it into a fist to prevent it from shaking. "It's May 16, 2036, Steve, half past five in the morning. You're near the corner of 26th and 4th, exactly where you disappeared, and this is..."

He trails off again. It's that Steve keeps staring, his eyes dragging openly on the grey in his hair.

They can't keep standing like this. They have protocols, mandates. Bucky exhales hard and forces his feet forward. "I gotta check your identity," he murmurs, holding Steve's eye, and Steve nods, makes himself pliant -- tips his head back the instant Bucky's hand comes within range. _Trusting,_ like he's going with his gut. That's fair enough. Bucky will go with that, too.

His prosthetic manages to steady; he scrapes the tips of his fingers along the line of Steve's neck and comes up with nothing. No seams, no masks. "Okay," he breathes. "Sam, you got--"

"I got him," Sam says, tapping incredulously at an interface screen. "That's Steve all right."

Bucky exhales around the beat of his heart. Steve cocks his head, seeing his apprehension; and it's swift, the way he reaches out. The way his thumb rests at Bucky's cheek like it's been no time.

"You knew I would be here," Steve says.

Bucky gives a shaky smile and grabs his hand, guiding it away from his face. "I'd -- hoped."

"Were you waiting long? Bucky..."

But Bucky shakes his head. "A little birdy told me when to come. He had a real big mouth." He runs a thumb across Steve's knuckles and then lets go, before the tremors return. "You remember anything about that?"

"Why would--" But then Steve frowns as the thought hits him. "Are you saying _I_ told you?"

"You from the future, which you haven't lived, so… no. I guess it wasn't _you_ ; you wouldn't remember." He laughs, helpless, running a hand through his hair. "We don't know shit, Steve, we really have no idea…"

But his voice peters out on him again. Saying that name, _Steve_ \-- seeing him here in front of him...

"Come on," Bucky says. "Let's get some breakfast. We'll fill you in, get you caught up. You still about pancakes?"

"I'm still about pancakes," Steve says, perfunctory, a little bewildered, but it's so _him_ as to strike warmth in the pit of Bucky's gut. "Buck -- what happened to that warehouse? What -- I mean, if it's twenty years later -- Jesus _Christ_ , but what _happened_? Did you ever catch that kid? How is this lot empty now? What the _hell_ happened to my shield?"

Bucky laughs; he can't help it. He nudges Steve at the shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze as Sam picks up the reader and sets pace beside them. "You're a little late on the mission debrief," Bucky says. "Just relax a minute. There's a lot to adjust to. Try not to draw attention to yourself, alright? There's a whole big bad world out there, it won't do to land yourself in any fights."

"Okay, Ma," Steve mutters, laying the accent on a little thick, but he shoves his hands in his pockets and steps forward while Bucky hangs back, desperate to get a breath in his chest.

"You alright?" Sam mutters, hooking an arm around his neck, resting comforting lips at his brow; and Bucky nods, even smiles a little, clenching a hand in the back of Sam's shirt.

"I'm good," Bucky says. "Are you good?"

"I'm floored. Who the hell thought he would actually be here?"

"I did."

"You saying you didn't have faith in me, Sam?" Steve mutters, gaze pointed distractedly to the sky.

"It's not that I didn't have faith," Sam says. He slaps Steve on the shoulder and guides him down the sidewalk. "It's more that I didn't believe Barnes' story for a second."

"It wasn't a _story_ ," Bucky says. "He _came_ to me."

"I came _to_ you?" echoes Steve.

"Yeah, you -- oh my _God_ ," Bucky groans. "Thirty seconds out of time purgatory and you're telling dirty jokes."

"You set yourself up for that one," Steve says, squinting at the street signs. "God, what -- _happened_ to this place? All residential now, I--" He turns to the pair of them, mildly horrified. "The cars don't hover now, do they?"

Bucky frowns at him. "You know for a guy who's done this before, you're sure having a hard time."

"It's been twenty years," Steve says, mumbling with sudden humility, and Bucky's heart skips a beat; he's so young, somehow shorter than he thought, so beautifully naive. "I mean, the two of you alone…" And he trails off, eyes lingering on Sam, before he flits them away and to the sidewalk in front of him.

"Forget about it," Bucky says. Against his better judgment, he sets an affectionate, guiding hand at the back of Steve's neck. "I mean it. We'll get a tower of pancakes, show you where we conduct business, and we'll be able to answer any questions you got within the day, how's that sound?"

"You guys still Captain America?" Steve asks.

"Yeah," Sam answers, smiling. "Yeah, Steve, we're still Captain America."

"Then I leave myself in your capable hands," he says, smiling humbly, and Bucky reaches out a hand to test around his wrist -- the real Steve Rogers, unaged; alive.

"Welcome to the future, Rogers," Bucky sighs, a little shaky; and with Sam's arm around him and Steve reaching, hesitant, to intertwine their hands, the three of them set down the street -- both too late, and right on time.

  


**Author's Note:**

>  **Chronic illness warning:** Serious illness is a theme and a plot point, but deterioration is not significantly described. A background character is "cured" of an illness against his explicit instructions while unconscious; this is briefly described, not shown. No character death occurs in the events of the story, though it is discussed as a possibility or inevitability, sometimes at length.
> 
>  
> 
> **Notes, attributions, and thanks:**
> 
> The title, as per the quote's attribution in Chapter 6, is from _Slaughterhouse-Five_ by Kurt Vonnegut. The Tralfamadorans are aliens that Billy Pilgrim imagines have unstuck him in time, when in fact brain trauma and WWII PTSD have caught up with him. It's a very loose and extended metaphor, but a relevant one.
> 
> Rectify Solutions is loosely based off the [DUP](http://infamous.wikia.com/wiki/Department_of_Unified_Protection) from _Infamous: Second Son._ It is a very good game about folks with enhanced abilities, if that's your kind of thing.
> 
> I'm an arts major and I'm sorry for the butchered science, but I based as much as I could on approximations of real physics, if very... _very_ loosely. [Did you know they teleported something into space recently?](http://www.bbc.com/news/av/science-environment-40573621/first-object-teleported-to-earth-s-orbit) That's the inspo for Steve's astral projection situation in Chapter 13.
> 
> Happy's, in Chapter 11, is loosely based off a bar in Montreal called Grumpy's, where they have live amateur music most nights of the week. Go there if you're ever in town. The song Bucky plays there is Fleetwood Mac's _Landslide_ , with special mention to Lynyrd Skynyrd's _Free Bird_. The song Steve and Bucky dance to in Chapter 7 is a cover of Elvis Costello's _Almost Blue,_ though I listened to the Chet Baker cover on repeat instead while writing that scene. And I think Elvis Costello is perfectly fine, it's Steve's bias, don't at me.
> 
> Jules and his band of merry misfits are adapted from mutants from the 616 universe: [Julian Keller](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Julian_Keller_\(Earth-616\)); [Fabio Medina](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Fabio_Medina_\(Earth-616\)); [Xi'an Coy Manh](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Xi%27an_Coy_Manh_\(Earth-616\)); [Jia Jing](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Jia_Jing_\(Earth-616\)); and [Sybil Dvorak](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Sybil_Dvorak_\(Earth-616\)). They make such a fleeting appearance that it seems strange to mention the research I did on them, but I have a few ideas for sequels kicking around in my head, so that's them, just in case. Similarly, Aurora is based on [Jeanne-Marie Beaubier](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Jeanne-Marie_Beaubier_\(Earth-616\)), also from 616.
> 
> A million thank yous to my beta @[ladra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ladra)! I am unused to using one, which probably now shows, but she was a real champ -- checking in with me before I could check in with her, delivering honesty and kindness in equal measure, and a HUGE degree of help on the realities of muscular degeneration as I was trying to describe Bucky. It's a much better project having had the overseeing eye; thank you, a million times. All errors are my own.
> 
> And special thanks to other SBB participants. We held each other up in the dang slack chat sometimes. Sprinting was an enormous help and building community was an awesome bonus. We workshopped summaries, action scenes, structure, random snippets… I've never treated writing as a remotely collaborative process before, but there's no doubt I'm a better writer for it now. It was cool as hell to watch your projects evolve and a privilege to evolve alongside you. Thank you for helping me learn.
> 
>  **eta 9/15/17:** the amazing [yusevna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Yusevna/pseuds/Yusevna) has done additional art (unaffiliated with the Bang) for this work. If you have a tumblr account, you can see it at the source [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/yusevna/165241244011); otherwise you can see it on my blog [here](http://newsbypostcard.tumblr.com/post/165242459051/yusevna-gonna-try-to-my-hand-at-sketching-scenes).
> 
> Sequels are outlined, because I can't leave well enough alone. Thank you for reading.


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